... in Islay

 

 We took longer than intended to get ready and leave, so I was in a slight state of heightened tension when we left home 45 minutes before our gate was due to close. Fortunately we arrived, parked and got through security with just enough time for a toastie before boarding. And also time to sample a gin being handed out in duty free. Husband reached for the bottle to put some in the tiny plastic cup, before the flustered sales assistant pointed out that there was already a few drops measured out in the sample cups.

A family ahead of us seemed to struggle with getting on the plane and finding seats - thus holding up the entire process. It was unclear how finding a seat number was so tricky, but even more peculiar was that they engaged in an equally lengthy and confused process getting off again at the othe end. 

At Glasgow we went through the exit and then back round to check in. This time we had a sample of whisky in duty free, followed by a haggis brunch. One menu option was vegetarian haggis. What the fuck is that when it's at home! But this was not the only questionable aspect of our chosen eatery as Husband was given a wine glass with his bottle of beer, and needed to ask them to change it for a beer glass.

Before long we boarded the tiny plane to Islay, so small that hand luggage didn't fit in the overhead lockers, and needed its own seat on the fortunately half empty flight. As we arrived, we flew along the southern coast, with clear views of the white coastal distilleries of Ardbeg, Lagavulin and Laphroaig before turning northwards and coming into land on a runway next to a beach - and for a while it did almost seem as though we would just land on the sand.

Just Inside the door of airport building, a lone carousel (or rather, conveyor belt) was turned on while a man stood outside the door we had just come through and fed the hold luggage through. We only had hand luggage, so headed outside to the bus stop, which contained an above average quantity of sheep droppings. 

Either side of us stretched out a long, empty road. It started to rain. And was windy. I had revisited the guide book from our 2003 visit which reference the non cycling club, and their being unable to do much the wind. 

At the bus stop we chatted to a man who had an appointment to visit his cask at bruichladdich at 9am the following day. Our appointment was at 10.30. He planned to get his bottled at the next opportunity, despite it only being 6 years old.

Before long the bus arrived and we went forth to Bowmore, arriving too early to check in, we had no option other than to go to the Harbour Inn for a couple of drinks. The bar had an odd thing going on whereby coins were placed and balanced on the stone wall.

As we were in Islay and in a bar it seemed remiss not to sample some whisky. So we treated ourselves to a 17 year old caol Ila. Which wasn't bad. Husband was almost emotional. 

Suitably tipsy, we wandered up the hill to check in, passing the only fuel station in town which comprised a lone pump on the pavement in a residential street.

Once our bags were dumped we went into town to the Bowmore distillery. We looked in estate agent Windows on the way and saw that the B and B we were staying in was up for sale.

At Bowmore we went to the dram bar and acquires a tasting tray.

After working our way through 4 shots, we concluded that we still didn't like Bowmore. And we're comfortable with this decision, Despite prominent warnings on the wall about this meaning you possible were wasting money buying whisky at all. They had a large world map on the wall in which visitors could put a pin to indicate where they were from. It was interesting to see the huddles of interest in whisky around he world, including New Zealand. 

We went for a wander around the harbour, looking across the calm water to bruichladdich on the opposite shore. Fishermen had come in and on one trawler was a bucket of mackerel and a bucket of dog fish that hadn't finished dying yet - and were apparently good crab bait. Which presumably still applied if they were dead. 

I wondered why fisherman wore yellow wellies. Husband said it was so you could see them when they were upside down in mud. That query resolved, we went back to the B and B for a rest and coffee before dinner.

We returned to the harbour inn for dinner, whose restaurant looked out over the water, and setting sun. And we dined sumptuously, starting with the softest oysters we had ever tasted. Disappointingly the mussels had sold out. Husband had lobster and I had crab, which was a little challenging. And everything came from local waters. Possibly brought in on the trawler we had seen earlier. The crab may even have been tempted from the water by a dead dog fish. The waiter, however, was rather useless. Husband quoted a survey about dumb people being too stupid to know they are dumb people. The waiter was incompetent more than dumb. 

Outside the weather dropped and lifted, hiding and revealing the opposite shore line, all the time adding character to our whisky.

Not all the food was fabulous. The potato salad had orange and lemon in it. This was a surprise. And not a good one. Sometimes a chef should just stop trying to be clever, and modern. 

We staggered back up the hill to the B and B. It was dark, quiet, cool and wet. We wondered if it was less lively in winter. 

That night we slept well and in the morning the sky had glimpses of blue amongst the grey. We went down for breakfast where all the guests sat around a single large table. Husband asked for a full English - to the ire of our camp Scottish host who suggests husband will be sent home without breakfast. Having completed breakfast without causing further offence we wandered down to the harbour to see bruichladdich from afar and then to the bus stop which to catch a bus over there. 

This was clearly an island where everyone knew everyone. The bus driver grimaced in a friendly way to the people who had parked in the road, momentarily causing a news worthy traffic jam. But he clearly knew them. He waved at every driver that came passed on the opposite side of the road. I was unsure if this was through familiarity or akin the Shetland way, where the locals just wave at every driver. It was a great scenic drive, along the rugged beach edge which was being gently slapped by the surprisingly choppy water.

And we were on the island at an exciting time as it was the monthly animal auction. Fine specimens of red meat on legs were being herded into pens for sale while men in wellies walked around examining them in a knowing way. 

He tells us that Kilchoman distillery is a 5 mile walk from the road, and visitors do the walk but are clearly tired on collection. Shortly afterwards, we arrived at Bruichladdich. There were more storage sheds at the distillery, but it was now given over to a lot of gin production. The distillery was now owned by remy, which seemed a shame following the inspiring story of the local people buying it off a large corporate which had first attracted us.

We checked in for our cask visit and before long a slim, attractive blonde took us to the shed where it had been quietly distilling for the past 14 and a half years. It had rained heavily overnight causing some of the path to have washed away, and a small flood of water to collect in the gift shop.

We went into the cool semi darkness of the distilling shed. The still air gave off a faint whiff of whisky. Row upon row of casks, stacked on wooden shelving 3 or 4 high filled the shed. She found the row where ours was housed, and we eased our way down the narrow walkways between the rows to find its cask number on the end. Then we went round to the other end and rubbed away a tiny fraction of 14 years of dust and mildew to see my name stamped on the lid. This was a surprise. And a good one.

We went to one of the buildings further up the hill, where the casks are filled, to collect the annual sample. Back in the visitor centre, we were given complimentary bruichladdich glasses to samp,e our whisky on site. It was slightly smoother than the previous year, but it also had a bit of fire to it. Then again, it was cask strength. An oakiness was starting to come through as well. This was now a tough decision. There was no option to put it in a different cask to finish it. But we didn't want more oak flavour. The moment for bottling was possibly approaching. 

We tried some samples of the whisky they had available for tasting. There were 2 cask strength whiskies which were bottled to order and could only be bought there. One was 62.4%! I let bro the elder know, given he judged all alcohol by ABV. He was suitably floored by this information. Unfortunately we couldn't buy any as we were flying back with hand luggage only, so couldn't take liquids in that quantity. 

We went outside to wait for Lamont, our taxi driver, to take us to Laphroaig as unfortunately the bus timetable was inconveniently infrequent. He told us about stupid Americans, particularly one set who asked how they could get to zero barn. He was confused, and unsure. After a while they showed him the map, and pointed to Oban. Presumably, he reasoned, Iona was ten na. He was also of the view that he more they said gotcha, the less they've got you at all. Our agreement in American bashing just set him off. The colonials had also enquirer do you have the internet here - even though they'd been emailing him for weeks prior to their trip.

It was a slow road there, which we drove along slowly. Admittedly, the peat landscape did make the roads somewhat bouncy, and lamont was probably interested in his suspension remaining intact. 

The long road down to the south was single lane with passing places. 

Ahead of us, at port Ellen the maltings chimneys were gently smoking. Finally we arrived at Laphroaig and were relieved of an exorbitant taxi fare. We didn't bother going to the peat field to plant flag on our square foot of Laphroaig land, but did claim our leaseholder rent plus a few other whisky samples. The leaseholder arrangement had developed somewhat since our last visit. Then the wellies and flags were scattered in an out room. Now there was a fancy computer system to plot your square foot and lockers for wellies.

We chatted to a bearded young man who was kayaking around the island. He hadn't got to his intended destination he previous day so had pulled into Ardbeg and asked if he could pitch his tent there - they were very welcoming and let him, perhaps taking pity on his bedraggled state. 

We walked on to Lagavulin along a new, recently constructed wide off road footpath that meandered along the edge of woods It was hot. There was only us there, and the road was quiet so there was no sound other than the occasional baa from a sheep. This is the island's busiest time, and it is probably nicer when it's quiet. 

The inside of Lagavulin was decorated in the style of how its offices may have looked in the late 1800's. Leather and tweed armchairs were arranged around a fireplace where we sat to sample whisky. We were now starting to see familiar faces from previous distilleries. 

Lagavulin was the least warm and welcoming so far, so we walked on to Ardbeg. In he interests of time, we didn't divert off to the Dunnyvaig Castle, a small ruin that had it's heyday in the 1560's.

With minimal warning, the weather turned from sun to rain. A lot of rain, largely sideways. We got to just outside the distillery and lingered under the trees as these afforded some protection from the rain - just before the completely unprotected walk down the drive, through the car park and to the distillery. We remained there for some time. Doubting that it would ease anytime soon, we girded our loins for the walk and arrived dripping, bedraggled, legs wet through. We hoped they would take as much pity on us as they had the kayaking man.

We were not the only damp patrons. When we got in, initially there wasn't anywhere to sit in the restaurant. But after a few minutes wait we were seated. 

We feasted on Shetland mussels cooked in a very tasty cream sauce, followed by haggis, neeps and tatties which was served with a dram of uigeadail. We were now feeling the chill from our wet clothes, which couldn't be dried in the Eco slot style hand driers in the loo.

It was a fabulous room for lunch, with a high, dark, wood timbered ceiling. Replete, tipsy and cool, we made our way outside for the last bus home of the day. We had no cash to pay for the tickets, but he bus driver was fine with us going to Bowmore, getting cash out here and then paying. This was the sort of service which we were unfamiliar with.

The weather had now lifted, so we wandered up the hill to visit the round church that overlooked Bowmore, and then around the churchyard outside. Graves had spread beyond the initial church walls, so walkways had been broken through to allows the dead to spread farther and farther afield. There were war graves - many for bodies found between August and December 1940, presumably washed up from the Atlantic.

A rainbow arched over the distant hills.

We were too full for dinner so returned to the B and B and dozed for most of the rest of the day. 

The next morning the weather was not discernibly better. After breakfast we made our daily perimeter check of the harbour. Husband hadn't remembered that my square foot of Laphroaig soil was from his secret Santa bottle to me and is therefore intricately linked with our getting together. He then let on that he had engineered getting me as his secret Santa recipient.

We bought some souvenir distillery prints and visited the tourist information shop. This had a book of local walks. Husband saw one which he thought would be nice to do, if the weather was good. We didn't want to buy the book but sneakily photographed the details of the route, put the book back, went outside and then waited at the bus stop. It was the same driver who had picked us up from Ardbeg the previous day which made us wonder if there were only two bus drivers on the island.

It was a relatively speedy ride to port asking from where it was unclear how to buy ferry tickets as the office was closed. So we went to the ferry and mentioned the ticket issue. The young chap on board said not to worry and directed us on to a small fishing boat moored next to the car ferry. It soon transpired that the car ferry had broken down. So the locals were ferrying people back and forth in a fishing boat. By all accounts, free of charge. On arrival at Jura the fisher men held the boat against a rusty ladder that stretched up the concrete harbour edge which we needed to step out of the boat onto, and climb up. Which was all incredibly good fun. Those with luggage then had hat passed up to them.

At the Jura end, a number of cyclists were waiting to board the ferry and I pitied the men who needed to negotiate passing the bikes down to the chaps on the fishing boat.

We then boarded a minibus for the bouncy ride into Craighouse. 

Jura consisted of one road, one town, one hotel. And one distillery. We could see large hill, or mountain, towering over the island and wondered if it was one of the paps. 

We knew that the distillery tours were fully booked, but popped in on the off chance, and to try a sample or two. It was a tiny set up and we knew we would think of Jura differently now, every time we drank it. Picturing ourselves here, in this peace, with stunning views over the calm sea.

We wandered through the quiet town, visiting it's one shop. There was barely a soul about. Next to the distillery a torrent of water, stained brown with peat, raced down the hill to the sea. Beyond the Jura rugby club sign was a small patch of green with the beach on one side. It seemed unlikely that any rugby had played there for a while.

On Jura the red deer population outnumbers humans. To ease the imbalance husband ate a Jura venison burger for lunch. The sleepy town suddenly spat out its residents as loads of people appeared and congregated in the hotel restaurant for lunch. Having had the place to ourselves for a while, it was became standing room only. 

We sampled some of the rare Jura whiskies they stocked - Fire and a 1996. We were starting to take an increased interest in those which had been distilled in bourbon casks without being finished in something else.

Soon the time arrived for the single mini bus ride back to the ferry. We waited at the harbour for the little boat to come across, the car ferry still being out of action,and then followed the same process to get aboard - climbing down the rusty ladder and stepping out into the boat.

Back on the mainland we sat in the pub garden at port askaig and waited for the bus, and from where we had a fine view f the Jura paps.  Oddly there was a sole cannon perched on the slope overlooking the harbour - pointing at the paps of Jura. It was unclear why.

We watched he large Caledonian ferries car ferry come in from mainland Scotland and recalled that this was how and where we had first arrived on Islay, 14 years earlier. 

The bus arrived and we bounced our way back to Bowmore then booked in to Loch Side for dinner. We were not going to get time to make it to peatzaria. It was a good thing we booked as the place was packed when we appeared for our allotted time.

As its name implies, there were fabulous views over the water. The food was good and fortunately did not include unwanted citrus fruit surprises. 

We returned to the room to watch the final of England ladies versus New Zealand ladies in the rubgy World Cup final. We drank one bottle of our Laphroaig rent before going to bed. 

The next day we were up early, planning to do the surreptitious identified walk to Laggan Point. It looked a bit cloudy outside and we were equipped with precisely nil outdoor walking kit. Not even walking boots. But by the time we finished breakfast, there was blue sky and sunshine. 

None of the guests were down by the time we finished, but they had all congregated when we dumped our bags in the breakfast room for the day, and set off. Initially we needed to walk along the road out of Bowmore, and then down a track to the shore. Before long the path petered out and became marshy. One bit was only passable because a fence handily ran through it, which we could climb onto and edge our way along, raised off the soggy ground. It was quiet. No one else was about. Except for sheep and birds. The coastline was pretty, low lying but rugged, with a number of small sandy bays. Our feet were starting to get wet, as our inappropriate footwear struggled with the relentless dampness. We were wonderfully inadequately dressed and kept a keen eye in the sky - were would be comprehensively undone if it rained. We saw clouds in the distance but hoped they weren't coming our way.

We started to skirt around the quiet, stunning sandy beaches by Laggan farm. The beaches were long and empty. I wondered if it was ever warm enough to swim in the loch waters. We could see a group of people playing on top of one of the headlands. This was outrageous. We had walked for 2 hours and there was someone else already here. Furthermore, they had driven, as we had now left the marsh and come back round to civilisation. This didn't ease the wetness underfoot. The mud road was distinctly boggy and puddle strewn. In many areas, walking in the rough ground to the side was preferable.

As we trudged along the long, muddy, boggy track back to the main road, we heard a noise in the long grass and saw two red deer rise up, and bound away, only visible when they leapt above the grass height in their next bound. We stood and watched for a while, transfixed, as they silently and gracefully ran across the field which hid effectively hid them in its long grass. 

Husband now suggested that he hadn't wanted to do the walk. He was achy and his feet hurt. As did mine. Largely thanks to us wearing the wrong footwear. But he had found the walking book, made me photograph the page and had then bought a map which covered the route. He conceded that the signals could have been misinterpreted but that all those things did not necessarily mean he actually wanted to do the walk. 

Pheasants flew suddenly out of the shrubbery around us. There were deep ditches on either side of the track, showing the peat rich soil. The track had evidence of some attempts to fill pot holes with stones, which husband said wouldn't work as there were no finings. Then we see some with finings. So perhaps they had realised this already.

Finally we reached the main road for the last couple of miles walk back to Bowmore. From the road we had a good view of the paps of Jura. We were both aching, and had painfully sore feet. So it was with relief that we collected our bags and made our way to the pub to change shoes, sit down and have a beer. We had some lunch and our final whiskies - bunnahabhein. And remembered how good it was. We finished off with a bruichladdich, which seemed appropriate before heading out to wait for the taxi. 

It was a primitive process at the airport. As there were few flights, the staff had all gone home, and were only now starting to come back, to open the check in and prepare for the plane due in.

Our seats were right at the back, in a row of 4, a bit like a bus. We taxied to the water, and took off along the coastal runway.  It was cloudy on route to Glasgow where we had a 3 hour wait for the flight back home. I would have bought some bits In the duty free shop had there been anyone around to serve us. In the alcohol section, they failed to stock any of the whiskies we were interested in. 

Before long we were back at Southampton and home, where the cat was clearly pleased to us. Bizarrely, I didn't fancy a whisky night cap. 

... in Melbourne and New Zealand

We had a leisurely morning, dropping the cat off at the chattery before heading to the airport. I had I formed Bro the younger of our flight details as he was due to collect us at Melbourne, and he had responded 'ace, see you there. If I'm not there, just wait. If more than two days pass, get a hotel'. This was possibly a tongue in cheek reference to the time when he had mistaken the dates of the mothers arrival, thinking her due the next day. After an hour waiting, she called, rousing him from bed to come and get her. The incident has not been allowed to be forgotten.

We arrived at the airport and having just about long enough for lunch, repaired to Jamie's where food was promised within 15 minutes. I therefore wondered if the menu was made up from items in his 15 minute meals recipe book.

We boarded the flight for the first leg of the journey. The chief trolley dolly proudly announced that the staff spcame from 15 countries and spoke 18 languages. Unfortunately it didn't seem to have occurred to them to use the person fluent in English to make the English announcement. There seemed to be a rather serious medical emergency a coup,e of rows in front, taking the time and attention of some air stewards for a good 2 to 3 hours. I hoped that whatever it was would resolve and not require an emergency landing somewhere en route. Fortunately the situation seemed to dissipate as suddenly as it had arisen.

We were served relatively good food and the flight passed rapidly. As has happened previously, 20 mi Utes before landing a ceaseless steam of announcements and adverts are played, then the headphones were collected - so the final 10 minutes of the film I had been watching would have to wait. More Frustratingly though, we sat 20 feet outside the stand at Dubai airport waiting for the lights to be turned on.

We therefore had a rapid walk across the airport from C to A, through security scanning and only just enough time to neck our drinks at the JD bar, plus the gratis shot of JD Tennessee honey, before obeying the summons to go to the gate where we had another by search. Husband says this is because we may have bought explosives since the last check, 20 minutes earlier, to which I responded that perhaps they shouldn't sell them then. At the slow moving bag search queue (all bags had to be opened and rifled through by hand) a girl in front of me was jumping about uncomfortable and holding her bum in a way that clearly indicated she had a fairly urgent need for a poo. This did nothing to encourage her mother to exercise any haste whatsoever. 

We needed to plan sleep arrangements carefully on the next leg as we would arrive in Melbourne late in the evening, so needed to be tired and ready for bed. The food continued with another breakfast with which Husband struggled to get a g and t. It may be 6.45 am in the uk but was respectable drinking time where we were. We were later delight with a pizza midnight snack. By the time dinner was served Husband had lost interest in aeroplane food.

There was some significant turbulence during the night, so much so that even the cabin crew were asked to take their seats.

As we approach Melbourne some people near us asked the air hostess for a landing card. She responded that they had been ha dead out earlier, and reluctantly went to get some. We had been awake pretty much the whole flight and they definitely had not already been distributed. A number of passengers, us included, also asked for them. So she started to offer them row by row. The people in front of us said they already had them - did you get them on boarding, asked the air hostess. Yes, they replied. Thought so, she then said loudly. Again, they had not clearly been handed out on boarding, possibly on check in at Dubai but then no one on a flight transfer would have got them. Her staggering rudeness could only mean one thing - she was BA trained.

Finally we landed whereupon a man sitting behind us seemed determined ed to be the first off the plane, pushing past the passengers getting bags out of the overhead lockers, and then queuing in the aisles until the doors were opened. He thrust his way through, leaving his wife behind who was u able to follow with hand luggage.

We were quickly processed through customs and immigration and then waited for ed. after a few minutes there was no sign of him, so Husband texted to let him know where we were in case he was waiting somewhere different. In the event it was beck he had texted. She replied that ed was there, but then must have phoned him as we were soon informed that he had got lost in the car park. This seemed to top off a bad day for him. The belt in his car had broken, and he had discovered that his internet cable ran under the neighbours from garden, which was about to be dug up and tar Mac laid over it. Ed talked about the difficulties of parenting when you have had a bad day, for example asking his son to get his shoes on only for him to come back with a piece of Lego and a dinosaur.

We managed to get out of the car park ok, and then got directions by phone from beck as the freeway was closed for roadworks, resulting in substantial queues of traffic.

On the way we drove past Melbourne kebab cafe. This made us smile as we told Bro the Younger that the mother didn't believe kebabs shops could be found in the uk. When we got to the house we stayed up for a bit, chatting and drinking whisky, then went to bed and slept well, waking up at more or less normal waking time the next day.

Spiderman remembers us and slot straight away into easy casualness and playing. Bro the Younger makes breakfast of smoked salmon on toast with poached egg and avocado smashed with feta and lime. Spiderman asked if he can lick the lime, claiming he likes sour. And in fairness, he did then lick it quite a lot. On the news we hear that the kebab shop in Melbourne burned down in the night. So now Melbourne doesn't have kebabs either, we joked.

Peppa Pig was a bit more shy, but was now walking and stomped around the house in her shoes, struggling to stay upright.

We went out to the park to play on the climbing frame and swings. I didn't put Peppa Pig in the baby swing properly, thinking that the holes in it were for legs rather than drainage. She knew it was wrong, and looked at me with a puzzled face. 

There was a long steep flight of concrete steps down to the river Yarra and between us we got 2 children and a pram down. This was not made any easier by a small team of people occupying part of the steps to do a film about how difficult the steps are to navigate for parents of small children and people with bikes. 

It was warm, despite being winter. Peppa Pig was a confident and keen walker, grabbing a finger for balance and then boldly striding along. Having sufficiently expended their excess energy we took them home and left them with their mother while we went into town. After a short wander about, admiring the architecture we went for a beer on the terrace of the charlton hotel, the roof garden not being open at that time of day. The entrance at street level gave minimal clues and did little to draw you in. We climbed the stairs into the first floor bar - a large room, darkly lit and decorated with red flock wallpaper, reminiscent of a brothel.

On our last visit it had rained torrentially as we were pondering whether to walk down towards Albert park, with rather made up our minds about whether or not to do so. Consequently we had not seen the war shrine nor the botanical gardens, which Bro the Younger now took us to. This also provided opprtunity to demonstrate the enormous turning circle require by his ute, as it needed a 1 point turn to turn in a wide 2 lane road which had space for street parking on either side. 

Despite honking the weather was freezing, back at the house Bro the Younger made the summer cocktail, dark and stormy. Peppa Pig ran towards me, arms raised, wanting to be picked up. This privelige was usually reserved for her mother alone - and accompanied by a certain amount of complaint if she was not picked up as demanded.

Spiderman had donned an eye patch and rather brilliantly came out with the phrase 'shiver me timbers'. Aunt braved taking all the children so that we could go out for dinner. Spiderman would be fine to take, and indeed had been when he was younger. But according to Bro the Younger, Peppa Pig was another matter entirely and taking her with the, for dinner was completely unviable. 

We spent much of dinner silently listening as ed launched into one of usual, slightly aggressive social commentaries. 

We relieved Aunt of the children and went back home and to bed as we would be up early the next morning to see a triple header steam train. Typically this was one morning when Spiderman was dead to the world and Bro the Younger felt guilty about waking him. We set off, armed with a cup of tea in car cups and some toast for Spiderman to take with him. It was peculiar to see how like the father he was, even in his terminology - referring to the children as old bean and waiting around at stations for steam trains.

While we waited on the chilly platform Bro the Younger told us about his drone leaving him. He had bought a new one with a long range. So long that he could sit in the hammock at sorrento and send the drone to the beach so see if the car park was full. He had taken it to film a steam train, and while it was in the sky, waiting, it just left. Bro the Younger watched it go in disbelief and frantically waved it in what would be an amusing film, tragically lost to the world. He pushed the return to home button, fruitlessly. He waited, hoping it would come back when it's battery ran low. Nothing. Fortunately the manufacturer was able to check his flight logs and accepted that it had gone awol, so were sending him a replacement. 

It was late, but finally two engines appeared. Initially we thought the third, and oldest engine, hadn't made it, but after a while, that also appeared. It was an impressive sight, billows of steam rising I to the cool air. In a planning move that was reminiscent of the U.K., as it pulled out, and before the carriages had cleared the platform, it was halted by a red signal. 

Back at the house we spent the next 5 hours playing Lego and play do with the kids. Most of the player had been missed together and was now brown. Their mother bought some new pots, which Spiderman immediate started mixing together. Their mother said she had finally learned to get over this.

Peppa Pig knew her mind, pointing at whatever she wanted to play with. She had also learned to contort herself to indicate no, making herself impossible to pick up or put in a high hair. It was interesting to see the formation of choice. 

Bro the Younger took Peppa Pig outside to play with her in the afternoon sun, and when he came back in he had heat rash. He told us this was a recent thing, resulting in around 20 minutes of quite intense pain and itching anywhere that his skin had got exposed to the sun. 

Their mother got back in time for Peppa Pig's nappy change. Peppa Pig toddled over to her mother who asked if she wanted her nappy changing, and said, go to your bedroom,I'll meet you there. And off Peppa Pig toddled in the direction of her room. 

Spiderman out on his spider man outfit and ran around playing for a while before overheating in the heat to toe nylon get up.

We were dropped off at a nearby sports bar to watch the first lions test. It was quite busy and had loads of screens on each wall, all showing a different sport. Unfortunately the lions lost the first test. Bro the Younger met us there before heading into town for dinner. As a non follower of sport Bro the Younger found the bar extremely bizarre.

We had pre dinner drinks at a bar called Naked for Satan where we took a lift to the top floor and sat outside on the roof terrace, with views over the city. It was a cool evening but we were toasty warm under an industrial sized heating unit. It was a funky, dimly lit pLace, with artistic graffiti in the lift. It was a young place, very hip. And we felt old. And unhip.

We went to Bon Ton for dinner which was a US derivation of laissez les bon temps. Its speciality was smoked meats with sides. Bro the Younger ordered a selection which we then shared. It was delicious, particularly the smoked brisket. 

Back at the house we relieved the babysitter, who reckoned I looked just like Bro the Younger, and settled down with a cocktail made by Bro the Younger, cooled with a huge ball of ice which cools without melting. Or certainly not as much melting as cubes.

The next day we had a Sunday morning lie in and then played Lego with Spiderman while Bro the Younger made breakfast, but forgot about a croissant in the oven until he smelled burning a while later. Then Bro the Younger started his soap box speeches again, this time about brexit and that the most valuable thing he could give his Australian children (a British passport) was now worthless. He then moved on to his usual views about the pointlessness and divisiveness of borders, before moving round to the poor, needy and oppressed, pointing out that the worst thing that would happen to him all day was burning a croissant, and how lucky he was because he could buy a drone. While others would spend the day fearing for their safety or life. Bro the Younger became increasingly animated. For a while Spiderman kept playing with the Lego. Then slowly he stopped, and watched his father, quietly. Then he got off his stool, went over to Bro the Younger, grabbed gently at his leg and quietly asked him to stop talking like that. It was a sad thing to see, but ed immediately snapped out of it and suggested going to the park.

We quickly readied ourselves, all grateful for a change of scene. Spiderman cycled there and before long we arrived at spinny egg cup park. Bro the Younger got stuck in the swing by getting into it the way I had put Peppa Pig in previously. Spiderman played on the spinny egg cup, which makes Bro the Younger sick, see saws and a climbing apparatus. It started to rain so momentarily we sheltered under a high level walkway. We carried on playing when the rain eased but Bro the Younger had already phoned their mother for a lift, so when she came Spiderman was disappointed as he didn't feel he had had enough time to play on everything. It was alarming how we become our parents. Bro the Younger called his son old bean as our father had done with us.

Back at the house we had a snack for lunch. Bro the Younger let their mother have some of his food. She told us that he would later claim she had eaten all of his food - spookily like the mother. 

We joked about making contact with the mothers half sister in New Zealand on he basis she was minted and our half aunt, and with not much else in the way of living relatives. Bro the Younger said he would email Bro the elder to tell him to build a pool as we would soon be in the money. He even looked her up on linked in.

Their mother had procured for us some tickets to the AFL game at the MCG stadium, as they were members. Apparently the wait list was around 25 years and Spiderman had been added on birth. 

It was a long game, 4 quarters of 39 minutes each. And fast. And largely incomprehensible. 

We met up with their mother's parents, aunt and a brother we hadn't previously met, and cousins. Her father assured us that we could spend Aussie dollars in New Zealand. I wondered if this was like Scottish notes in the north of England. Technically ok, cut culturally unacceptable. It was a good fun experience, and we took a team back to the house to feast in a kebab dinner. It was not a proper kebab, as chips had been included within the bread, which wasn't pitta. Hunks of meat rather than elephant leg. Wrong on many many levels.

Bro the Younger was in bed with the kids when we got back. Henry quickly got up when we appeared, and practised using a nutcracker on home grown walnuts. He didn't want to eat them, just open them. All of them. 

We had the pleasure of a final Bro the Younger rant - this one more sad, about his lack of a relationship with the father. He had no ideas of the fathers feelings for him and his family, how much he talks of them. But unfortunately he is a bit old and a bit frail to travel to the other side of the world - and wouldn't want to spend days solely with kids. That didn't make him bad. It made him normal. Bro the Younger hadn't seen him for years so had no idea of his increasing age, and frailty, the awareness of mortality which makes you question the point of building a relationship with a child you will no more times than the fingers on your hand, who will never know you. But all Bro the Younger saw, all he told his kids, was the absence. The gap. Not the cause. I found it hard to hear - the tragedy of 2 stubborn, opinionated, pig headed men failing to see what was so clearly in front of them. So wonderfully alike. Bro the Younger even doubted he would mourn when the father died, beyond fulfilling his duty as a son. This was a man who travelled to Melbourne on the next available flight when Bro the Younger broke his neck, stayed as long as he needed, returning a number of weeks later to a car with a flat battery in the airport car park, arriving in time for my wedding by a matter of minutes. 

We also talked about the mothers treatment of Bro the elder after the previous visit. I wondered why I bothered trying to hold together this fragmented family who clearly hate each other. 

Bro the Younger told us about his trip to Scandinavia when he was younger. His friend's credit card didn't work so they couldn't get a hotel. With no choice but to sleep in the car, they needed to avoid freezing to death they stole a cable and broke into a warming plug to keep the car heated overnight. They got moved on at 4am, so drove off to a beach where they watched dawn rise over frozen pebbles. 

We say goodnight to Spiderman and explain we will have gone in the morning. He asks why we don't come back after New Zealand. It was an early start the next day, and long traffic queues. 

At the airport the check in lady wanted to see our itinerary. It was involved. Melbourne to Wellington. Wellington to Auckland. Wellington to Nelson. Nelson to Wellington. Wellington to Sydney. Sydney to Dubai. Dubai to England. I guess she wanted to be sure we were definitely going to leave their hemisphere at some point. There were signs around warning, interestingly, the bags may be screened. 

Inside, most of the departure lounge is blocked off for maintenance. Which was inconvenient. So we were limited for food eating (and sitting) areas. 

We took off over the city, whose array of tin roofs glinted in the sunlight below us, and puffy white clouds bubbled up over the Tasman sea. Our flight would take us over the international date line. 

We flew in to New Zealand over South Island which was very dramatic - miles of mountains, carpeted over the island with snow on the higher peaks. Smatterings of population were identified by small groups of houses huddled in the valleys between them. Most of the flat ground was given over to farming.

We crossed the water to north island and started our descent to Wellington. The hill tops were close below us, and then suddenly dropped away as the hills ended. We flew low across the harbour and landed, which Wellington airport reliably informed us was middle earth.

We negotiated the bus into town and then took a taxi to the hotel, primarily as it was late, or at least dark, the road the hotel was on was a long one, and we had no idea which end of it we needed to be. The buildings had a mid west, colonial feel to them. They didn't look sturdy enough to withstand an earthquake. It was cold. Much colder than Melbourne. 

Our room in the hotel was quaint, with a 4 poster bed and primitive bathroom, akin to something from Edwardian times. And it was cold. The electric blanket didn't work. There was a plug in heater, but the only working plug was at the other end of the large room. We watched TV - the school of rugby was on, including coaching comments. No one they were good at rugby. These were kids playing, on TV. 

We went to the bar for drinks and dinner. Everyone was very friendly. When we returned to the room it was freezing, so we slept with T shirts and socks on. It was odd getting used to dark evenings and dark mornings again. Well, it was winter. It was just very odd going to winter so very suddenly after being in summer in the uk. 

The hotel promised continental breakfast at the top of the stairs. So off to the top of the stairs we went.   A small table was laid out with a bowl of cereal and bowl of peaches. There was nowhere to sit so breakfast would need to be taken back to the room. We didn't bother. We did, however, speak to a man at reception about our trip. Before coming out, between husband and his friend The Kiwi (who has introduced husband to rugby), they had managed to get tickets for the lions v hurricanes mid week game. There had been no success in getting test match tickets. But we had come out anyway. The man on reception asked if we wanted tickets for the game at Wellington as he had a friend with a couple spare. Yes, we said. After a couple of calls, the tickets were ours and would either be available before we checked out the next day or we needed to pop back at the weekend to pick them up. So within 24 hours of landing, we had lions v all blacks test match tickets. Without paying a penny more an face value. 

We watched a replay of the Australia v Italy game in the room and then went to a cafe over the road for a proper breakfast. We then wandered into town, past the beehive parliament building. Signs outside advertised free tours every hour. We had all day to kill, so went in. The security check man murmure God save the queen.  Pretty much everyone on the tour, and indeed the tours before and after, were red shirted lions fans. It was nice to see so many visitors taking advantage of the tourist opportunities. The tour was very interesting and took as to the basement to show off the earthquake protection which basically involved the building being cut off its foundations, then massive damper springs being installed which gave the effect of a suspension system, thus absorbing ground shakes while he building above remained undistrubed. Also there were vertical cuts through the building so that one part of the building could move independently from another.

New Zealand was the fist country to give women the vote - a political move just prior to a vote on prohibition which naturally the women supported. The new law, however, only lasted 3 weeks.

The Parliament House was styled on the British system, but they had individual seats in the chamber for members rather than benches. They had also moved to proportional representation- resulting in a conservative government. More dramatically they had abolished the upper house. However, in the absence of this control over the government and in the absence on a constitution, parliamentary terms had been reduced to 3 years (which seemed almost pointlessly short).

In the beehive building there was a banqueting hall which was semi circular, and therefore impossible for the guests to see the entirety of proceedings. 

Opposite parliament was a building which looked like it was made from stone, but was in fact the largest government building in Oceania, made entirely from wood. 

We walked into town, along lampton quay which was a couple of blocks back from the sea. A huge quack in 1850 had lifted the earth substantially. Lampton quay used to be the shore line, as we were reminded by bronze markings in the pavement. We wandered down to the harbour and located a bar where we supped on lord almighty and black dog chomp ipa. It was filled with lions. As were all the bars. The whole town was. All the locals were friendly, saying hello, checking that we weren't lost and wishing us good luck for the Hurricanes  game later that day.

For a capital city it was small, relatively quiet (lions influx aside) and somewhat pedestrian.

We went to the museum and husband texted The Kiwi to arrange plans to meet up with him. However, the phone network, not realising where it was located and where it was sending to, advised that it wouldn't send the text until 7am to avoid disturbing the recipient. It was 3pm. For both husband and The Kiwi. 

The museum had a large exhibition on their liberation from the uk, and promotion of indigenous people. There was also a substantial and moving exhibition of Gallipoli. The earthquake house was disappointing, and the all blacks display was unsurprisingly busy. We went to the top floor for a wander outside and a view over the harbour.

We then wandered back into town and up Cuba street, where we were due to meet The Kiwi, passing the bucket fountain - which apparently tourists were entertained by and the locals loathed. In a very gender aware approach, the green man at pedestrian crossings was actually a green girl, clad in decorative bonnet. 

We located the hotel where The Kiwi was staying, and after a couple of beers, went for dinner at a nearby beer and grill, where the menu pages were arranged as Beer, Not Beer and Food. And the table cloth referred to serving dead meat. This was a place that spoke my kind of language.

The Kiwi's daughter had cheesecake and chips. When the waiter cleared the food he asked if we wanted pudding and if she wanted main course. Apparently she did eat normally when at home, and compelled to do so. She had never been to the uk and asked us some vital questions which would inform her travel plans - did we have Subway (the food place). And did we have wi fi. These were her only requirements of a place - possibly due to the lack of these things where she lived, on a remote farm outside puponga on South Island. She knew that she didn't want to live somewhere as remote as where she was. 

The Kiwi talked about farming, and his fishing trips in the sea at the front of his house where he collected reasonable quantities of sea slugs that live in he beautifully coloured pava shells - they were apparently an acquired taste, and he generally made them into fritters.

We headed over to westpac stadium, going into it (rather bizarrely) through the station. The stadium was raised off the ground, and half of it had no outside area. So the food outlets were all on the inner walkway which circled the stadium. One of these was a chargrill so vast swathes of the concourse were filled with thick, strong smelly smoke that had no sky to escape into.

The Kiwi's daughter was a keen hurricanes supporter. There was a bit of a scuffle in the game which The Kiwi referred to 'my handbag's bigger than yours', but it soon ended as the stadium speakers blasted out All You Need is Love. The tight game ended in a draw.

We returned to our hotel with them and picked up the tickets for the test match. In he bar we had some more drinks and much reminiscing between Husband and The Kiwi, who took a taxi back and hoped he wouldn't have to sleep on the concrete sofa outside. 

We went to bed late, and had an early alarm to get to the airport for our flight to Auckland. When I went to drop off the room keys a man was asleep in a chair in reception. It was unclear if he had lost his keys or not been able to get home.

Wellington was a small airport, and allowed you to take liquids through security and onto the flight. We got the usual emergency information and I was curious that we were instructed not to collect personal possessions but were deemed to have enough time to put on a life jacket. 

It was raining from grey, threatening skies. But the plane rose through the clouds to the beautiful sunny day above. 

It was a short flight and we didn't feel like food having eaten in the airpot, but we per had apparently pre booked sandwiches which we took with us. on arrival we found it was quite a long walk to the car rental place. As we got near we saw a shuttle bus for Jucy, the car hire firm. He saw our double take, so came round to pick us up. Our driver was Russian and we had a candid discussion about Putin,of whom he was not a fan. we did need to go back to the airport to collect other passengers who had, unlike us, not missed the details about calling on arrival to get collected. However, clearly we were not alone judging by the number of taxis that regularly dropped people off at the office. There was a time consuming queue and then a long wait for the car, apparently because it was being washed. After waiting half an hour we chased up progress and were then promptly given keys to a car that had been sitting there all along, not being washed. 

Our map of Auckland was not detailed. To add to complications it represented the roads they aspired to have rather than what they actually had. Despite this, we managed to work our way round to the East Coast Bays, in particular to Campbell Bay. I walked down the small road to the beach and out onto the sand. 

To my left were large houses whose tree filled back gardens led out to the beach. After leaving, I found out from my mother that the second one along of these properties was the house she had lived in as a child, and had been the envy of the neighbors as it was the only one with a tree, offering relief from the relentless summer sun. However, knowing none of this and having our immediate agenda defined by my need for a lavatory we carried on to Castor Bay and Kennedy Park. There were still war time gun implacements and barracks on the hill top above the beach. 

According to the information boards they had been camouflaged in the war as wooden holiday homes. Further military outposts were built Ito the cliff face below. More importantly, the car park had a loo. And a very amusing one at that. When you shut the door it talked to you, warning there was a maximum 10 minute use time at which point the door would open again. And then it played music. The loo itself was on an automatic flush which was triggered when you washed your hands.

We sat on the park benches in the sun, overlooking the sea and ate our egg sandwiches from the plane, surrounded by the interesting sound of birds we couldn't see.

We drove on through Milton and Takapuna where I stopped to look at the bay. Again I found out later that my mother's boarding school had stood on the land I was looking at, with private use of that area of the beach. 

We crossed the harbour beach and went on to St Helier's Bay, passing more military instalments on the way.

On our way back we saw what looked like three or four old steam trains gently rusting into dust, so we pulled over to have a bit more of a look and take some photos before heading on to the hotel. 

We wandered out into town for dinner and found a restaurant near the base of the tower which served fabulous food - oysters and clams, fish sliders, meat board. We were left speechless by how good it was. 

The following morning we left town slightly later than planned for our drive back to Wellington. The fields boasted herds of cows, but I hadn't yet seen any sheep. Or lambs, for that matter. Which was odd given that apparently there were more here per square metre than anywhere else in the world. We did however see a Hire a Hubby DIY business van. 

Husband described the journey as having scenery less interesting than Belgium. It did get more interesting south of Hamilton, a town interestingly adorned with corrugated creations.

We dropped in to Rotorua. Steam rose out of anywhere with water - streams, ponds, even from the water drainage grills at the edge of the pavements. 

We stopped near the lake which was vast and peaceful, with black swans  gracefully gliding across it. The smell of sulphur pervaded everything. 

The Pig and Whistle was an old police station, conveniently converted into a pub which met our needs for lunch. And they had a useful indicator sign to classify their beers. 

Fully replete  and tiring of inhaling sulphurous odours, we continued onwards to Te Puia. The central region of New Zealand is volcanic and littered with numerous geological points of interest. With limited time, we were being selective with what we visited. Te Puia is very touristy because it is a hot geyser that relatively regularly spouts a jet of water up to 30 metres into the air. On our walk to the spout we passed mud pools which were on a low boil making a constant thick splat sound as the oxygen forced its way out of the thick soggy mud. 

The water is the pools surrounding the geyser was clearly boiling and yet trees and shrubs still managed to grow in it. The rocks underfoot were hot so there were plentiful signs to warn against sitting on them. It was very smelly. Steam rose persistently from every crack and fissure in the ground. 

We watched the geyser for a bit, hoping to see the main event. It was only when we looked at our photos afterward that we realised we had. The site boasted a mocked up Maori village. A woman dressed in traditional costume came out and bellowed Kia Ora. This quickly turned into an audience participation event, so we left, and went on to Taupo via Waimango volcanic valley. On route were numerous grassy hillocks with lots of strange lumps, and I wondered if they were lava fields.

We stopped for fuel, and picked up a jar of manuka honey which was a big thing in this area. And very expensive. But then it did claim to cure almost every known illness. There was a strange ethereal feel during the drive through the volcanic valley as the heat perpetuities rising from the ground created a strange surface mist which we descended into when the road dipped down into some of the deeper valleys. But the sky above, through the steam, remained bright as it was sunny overhead.

The forest fire probability signs that we drove past implied the current risk level was low.

We arrived at Taupo and found our hotel, overlooking the quiet and peaceful lake - which was bigger than Singapore and actually a volcano. 

A substantial eruption 1800 years earlier scattered pumice stones liberally over a distance of up to 20 kilometres. The lake shore was covered with it, so we picked loads up to bring home.

The town was not pretty, a modest scattering of single storey, modern buildings.in some respects it felt a bit American. It was quiet, cool and smelled of sulphur. A lone man paddle boarded along the lake on a wearisome journey.

The lake was known for its trout, yet it was impossible to find a fish restaurant in town, so for dinner we ended up with Thai, in the only restaurant in town that seemed to have any custom. And therefore, atmosphere.

We woke to a cold morning,3 degrees centigrade and a mist lay low over the lake. We had breakfast in a nearby cafe and then went to buy a new suitcase as ours, which had already been a bit worse for wear, had struggled to survive its recent 4 flights out and was unlikely to survive the 5 flights we needed to take to get home.

We drove to Huka Falls, impressive due to the huge volume of water which was forced down a narrow crevice to the lake, thrashing throug the gap causing high fountains of spray and sloshed angrily against its restrictive cliff side with a loud and perpetual roar. It bubbled up and was then suddenly calm and deep turquoise at the end as it made its final journey to lake Taupo.

Further upstream was Huka prawn park which was allegedly the most significant prawn park in the world.

We went from there to the crater park, which attracted considerably fewer tourists. In fact, our visit doubled the morning interest. It was quiet and eerie with steam rising from fumeroles and craters with a constant hiss, resulting in a persistent misty day. We heard mud pools bubbling, like thick soup on a slow rolling boil.the duckboard path, which we had been instructed not to leave wound it’s way through the red and yellow, sulphur stained soil.

In a couple of craters the steam emitted so forcefully it sounded like a steam engine.

We headed south, passing vast metal pipes that were capturing the heat energy. A steady stream of fully laden logging lorries headed north and empty trailers went the other way. We drove through areas of mass deforestation which we hoped we being replanted, especially after having seen in the Wellington museum how much indigenous forest had been wiped out.

We stopped at five mile bay to collect more pumice, lumps the size of a child’s head - the husband is still using some of the small lumps to soften his feet. While at the beach, husband picked up a large chunk and hurled it into the water, where it floated, and gently bobbed away.

All day we had been driving through mist then suddenly, either it cleared or, more likely,we rose above it to a stunning view of snow topped mountains and volcanic crater summit of Mount Tongariro. As far as the eye could see a line of pylons marched its way across the barren moor like landscape taking energy from the thermal region.

Cars struggled to stick within the track limits of the road, and soon husband joined them although he blamed the shocking steering of the car, which had a number of faults and issues. Such as when you closed the back door, it popped the front door. Shutting the boot firmly popped the boot window.

We stopped in a lay-by for lunch with a mountain view. Then husband, whose guts were suffering, went into the bushes for a crap. He claimed that his bowel issues were due to the Thai dinner as it had smelled of coconut. I suggested that this coconut moist wipes may have contributed to the aroma.

We saw signs alerting us to the fact we were entering a military training area, and noted in an increase in the number of military vehicles on the road. Waioru was the New Zealand equivalent of Okehampton.

Maori words have a lot of vowels.

The road moved away from the mountains into a green, hilly landscape populated by large rises and falls in the surrounding greenery. The leaves of the trees were starting to turn orange with the onset of autumn. We paused in Bulls as Husband was getting tired. The town made an amusing use of its name with a large central signpost to the library (read a bull), town hall (social-bull), police station (const-a-bull) and so on.

We continued on down north island to Upper Hutt, which was considerably further than seemed possible. We passed through Otaki and heard a radio traffic report about slow moving south bound traffic. There had only been about 4 other cars on the road, however, from Porirua the traffic did build up and was slow moving on highway 2 to Upper Hutt.

After a bit of google navigation we found the B and B, with a crazy old lady in charge. Our room had more chintz in it than perhaps ought to be in one room at one time.

We turned on the tv where a New Zealand reporter had been travelling the country to speak to lions fans. He had been to Rotorua and Taupo and concluded that lions fans were into beer, banter, rugby and enjoyed watching a team who by all accounts weren’t very good at their chosen professional sport. But it was nice to see how much travelling the lions fans were doing. We saw the distinctive army of red tops everywhere we went.

Having had enough of a break from the long drive south we headed into town for dinner. There weren’t a whole lot of places to choose from, and town seemed generally quiet.

The following morning we had an early breakfast in chaotic surroundings and clutter similar to the mother’s house. 

Unable to get tickets before boarding as the ticket office was closed, we approached the guard who happily obliged, and was extremely friendly so chatted away to us for a while. As we approached Wellington another guard announced that if the all blacks lost there would be a day of national mourning and nothing would be open.

With time spare before the game we visited new St. Paul’s, and then went to old St. Paul’s which was a small, stunning wooden church replete with traditional tin roof. Due to the wood interior it gave of a deep earthy aroma. It had a hobbit house style vestry, crammed with Christmas shop goodies. The church was consecrated but could conduct ceremonies in any faith.

Outside it had started to drizzle but was still warm. There were lions fans everywhere. We popped into a Belgian beer bar, and had mussels for lunch. Which were enormous. And delicious. Everyone chatted to us, and wished us well for the game. It was unclear if the New Zealander’s were just very friendly people, or whether they appreciated the huge distance we had travelled in order to see the games, and pump thousands of dollars into the local economy.

We went to the Wellington mMseum, housed in an old bond house on the harbour. Among the exhibitions was one about the 1968 Wahana sinking.

We wandered along the quayside, now liberally dressed with people in red tops, and see the Fan Van. We popped into the nearby underground market and then back into town for coffee as husband was starting to feel the effect of strong beers earlier in the day. By now the rain had eased off. As we still had time to kill we took the cable car ride up the hill, where the rain had not eased off, and was most accurately described as torrential. 

While the locals may call it a cable car, it is better described as a funicular. We wandered around the small museum at the top  which included an early open sided carriage, with tilted seats so that you would still be level as the carriage went up the hill. As the rain started to clear, took the trip back down. 

We noticed that inside the tunnel the cable car travelled through the ceiling we decorated with fairy lights which made the UK and New Zealand flags.

The streets in town had become noticeably quiet. There was almost no traffic and the streets were emptying. We headed towards the bars. Which were rammed, but we managed to share a table with a family. The queue at the bar meant we didn’t drink too much and before long it was time to walk over to the Westpac stadium. The rain started again in earnest as we arrived. The stadium was beginning to fill with red tops.

This time the stadium was not filled with barbecue smoke, but delicacies on offer included mince and cheese pies. 

We received a safety warning about what to do if there was an earthquake, and then the New Zealand military band came out and performed a song and dance. Banter was starting between the lions and AB fans around us.

There were loud calls of lions lions, which even hijacked the New Zealand lions song where it went tutira Mai, tatou, tatou so that it went tutira mai, lions, lions.

The weather was appalling, but fortunately our seats were further back for this game, so we had the protection of the half width cover over the stand. 

It was a tight game, frustrated by penalties and careless mistakes. In our favour, Beaudon  Barrett missed some of his, but we gave him enough practice to start landing them. Also sonny bill Williams was red carded quite early. The lions pull to a draw. And then get a penalty allowing them to take the lead with 5 minutes to go. A lions fan near us tousled the hair of an AB supporter in front of him. Which didn’t go down well. The Maro Itoje song rang out round the stadium and erupted into cheers as the final whistle blew and lions had won.

As we wandered out slowly through the packed concrete ring around the stadium the singing continued. Lions, lions. Bread of heaven. Swing low sweet chariot. All much enhanced by the acoustic benefits of our surroundings. Small New Zealand children looked concerned, alarmed by both the loss and being so small in such a huge mass of people.

We went to the station which was conveniently located next to the stadium and managed to get on a train back to Upper Hutt. It was filled with lions, who had also found that this was the closest they could get a room. A reasonable number got off at Upper Hutt and we made our way to the glasshouse pub. It was karaoke night and Maori songs were being sung.

The locals were very friendly and chatty, assuring us that they loved the English and we should move there.

The next morning we had breakfast a bit later, and so met some other residents which included a glamourous older lady and a young lad wearing pyjamas and dressing gown. We talked about the game, and local wine - they were on a wine tour.

After breakfast we went to Silverstream railway. It only opened one day a month, and happily this was it. It was remarkably busy, which was nice to see, and a small queue to get in as soon as the doors opened. A diesel was running, pulling vintage coaches. Although one visitor with her grandson didn’t realise this and, inhaling deeply, asked the small boy if he could smell the steam. The small trip we went on passed the engine shed, affording tantalising glimpses of their steam engines. 

When we left we paused the admire a row of vintage fords that were parked in the street outside. Husband was wearing his lions top, so received comments of congratulations from every New Zealander we happened across.

Further up the road was a landfill site, and needing to jettison our broken suitcase we went to see if this was the place to do it. Usually you would need to pay to take a car load of waste, but they were happy to take our suitcase off us.

We drove on to Wellington and went round to Shelley’s bay. It seemed quiet, until we happened across the chocolate fish restaurant. We stopped, found a table outside and had catch of the day - takahuli with aioli and spinach in a bun. It was delicious. We finished just as the weather started to look as though it was going to turn nasty. 

It was a short drive back to the airport where we needed to drop the car. This proved to be an equally painful process to collecting it and it was unclear how this could all take so long. But this time we had a plane to catch, and needed to get a shuttle bus to the airport. After 30 minutes of waiting I murmured complaint and was then told we could just leave the keys on the desk. Which we did, along with others in the queue, and got over to the airport, arriving 20 minutes before boarding.

It was a small propeller plane. So small it couldn’t even take hand luggage which had to be left on the tarmac for a man to hand load into the hold. It was a short flight and felt as though we spent the whole flight climbing to altitude before immediately coming back down to land at nelson airport, into dark clouds and heavy rain. 

We picked up our hand luggage as we got off and the hold luggage was brought out to the front of the airport on a trolley for us to pick. No carousel nonsense.

We meet The Kiwi and start the 2 hour drive over the hill to his house through the flooded roads and fields we had seen from the air. The light started to fail as the road started to wind its way up the mountains and we passed a handful of land slides on the way. As we came back down the other side the Armco edging the road ended so there was nothing to break the steep fall off the edge in the event of error or misjudgment. The rain remained torrential. A wicky- a Maori chicken - ran across the road.

Finally we arrived at The Kiwi’s house which was wonderfully warm thanks to a central log burner. We had a hearty roast chicken (wicky?) dinner and chat until late before going to bed in warm, fleece sheets. It was like going to sleep inside a sheep. 

We wake the following morning and get our first proper view of where we are. We walk out of the house, cross the road and onto the beach. The tide is out so there is an expanse of sand, peppered with seaweed and other debris thrown up by the tide. 

We drove up to farewell spit and walk through a sheep and cow field up into the headland. There were fluffy backed Angus cows in the field.

From the top we looked down the steep cliffs to the bay below where a seal swam in the water while another lounged atop a mussel covered rock. We can hear the crash and roar of the west coast waves rising up the cliff walls to us. We went round to another headland and climbed the hill for views over Golden bay and the spit. The Kiwi informed us it had once been called murderers bay. I imagine that was less popular with tourists. Fan tails flitted around us, including a rare black one.

The rain starts to gather so we head back to the house. Now it was quiet and peaceful with no other soul in sight. But it was winter. The Kiwi told us of the problems he got with tourists and campers, blocking roads, pitching up on private property and leaving rubbish.

We went to the nearest town, a half hour drive away, Takaka to see the whale skeleton from a recent beaching that had happened in the bay over the road from The Kiwi’s house - but it wasn’t on display yet. The town was heavily populated by dreadlocked hippies running arty fatty craft shops and vegan coffee bars.

We went to Mussel Inn for dinner which was a fabulous high ceilinged wood cabin with a large brick open fireplace giving much needed warmth, and a hobbit door next to it leading to the outside wood store. There were a series of wood trestle tables and we gathered around the one nearest the fire. On another was a group of people knitting. Mobile phones had been nailed to a notice board outside the entrance with a Get the Message sign underneath. We had great food and The Kiwi told us the meaning of the New Zealand term for the English - pom or pomy. Prisoner of mother England. He also told us how the name all blacks came about by accident. They did indeed always wear black, but they were so fast they were being described as all backs. However the explanation was mis-heard and the name all blacks stuck.

We were all sleepy after a day of fresh sea air so went back to the house for bed as we had an early start the next day.

We got up in the dark, and headed back over the hill to nelson. There was a clear starry sky above us and dawn started to break as we reached the summit. We could now see the outline of the surrounding mountains as we dropped down into the valley. The flood waters had receded so the hops, apple trees and vines were no longer in paddy fields and now had sheep grazing between them. A red morning sky was shimmering over the peaceful bay water.

We had a coffee together in the airport - which consisted of one large room that fulfilled everything needed in an airport. And was also filled with sparrows. When the flight was called we walked out of the back door, across the tarmac and onto the plane.

We took off into clear skies above on the start of our 40 hour homeward journey. We arrived at Wellington and had about 6 hours to kill before our flight to Sydney. This had been deliberate. The weather between South Island and north island can be bad, delaying flights. That would have caused a problem which we didn’t need. So we allowed for wiggle room. Plenty of it. Husband had developed a cold and chest infection at Upper Hutt which was now quite bad, and I could feel it starting in my chest. We had found out that Manila honey kills more germs than any antibiotic so we were keen to get home and tuck into it.

We had breakfast at mojo, served by an incompetent waitress. Eventually we could check in and go through to international departures. We went to a bar which had the same incompetent waitress. Perhaps she had been fired by mojo and immediately hired by another outlet due to having security clearance.

Finally we were on board the plane. The trolley dolly came round with dinner, and I overheard them asking one passenger ‘will you be joining us for dinner?’ As though they could do somewhere else! Another called it a late lunch. I opted for the pork curry which was okay, and quite spicy. Husband had pumpkin ravioli which they would have been hard pushed to make more disgusting.

We came into Sydney at dusk. On arrival we had to collect our bags, enter the country and then go round to check in. So we had to complete a landing card which asked for our address in Australia, purpose of visit, number of days of visit - all pointless, and difficult to answer.  But we did have to declare our bee product and having been on a farm. I omitted any mention of the pumice stones as these didn’t seem to fit any of the items to be declared. But we were sent through quarantine where we had our answers prepared. We had an unopened manuka and had been on a friend’s farm, wearing his wellies which were still at his house. This was a lie, but the shoes we had worn were in the suitcase and contamination was only a risk if they asked us to open it. And they would shortly be leaving the country.

We got through and before long were in another departure lounge. We were now getting confused about what airport we were in. And our illness was getting worse. I was suffering flu like aches.

The flight to Dubai was 14 hours, and completely full. We slept, fitfully, both getting iller. We had dinner, again, followed by a decision about which breakfast option would be least revolting.

We arrived at Dubai feeling somewhat less than human and a long way off feeling refreshed. We made our way across the airport to the departure gate and boarded our last flight. To make this one joyous a woman across the aisle from Husband filled 4 to 5 sick bags.

We arrived back to a very hot England for which we were materially overdressed as well as being tired and ill. New Zealand, we concluded is just too far.