You are only as young as the person you buy booze for...

It's a funny old world. Everywhere I go people consistently judge me to be mid twenties. Which is pretty good going for a 30 something, slightly rotund man with receding auburn hair. Perhaps it is the lifestyle, the motorbike, the carefree, wind-in-the-face aplomb with which I carry myself. Perhaps not. (Have you seen me in my cowboy hat and pinstripe jacket...?)

Today, I got asked for ID in a supermarket in order to buy a bottle of red wine. No, it wasn't a chat up line. The 17yr old English lad who was serving, in line with store policy, called over a supervisor to authenticate the sale. She pressed a button on the console and looked up expectantly as if I knew what she wanted. For a second I was genuinely confused. Then as I realised that she was asking for ID, I experienced an odd feeling of indignation. Flaring, fuming indignation.
"Excuse me? You cannot be serious?"
"Yes"
"What age is it for alcohol? 18 surely? Are you seriously suggesting I look 18?"
Why my indignation? I am quite secure in the fact that my driver's license is 1. real and 2. accurate and therefore I would pass the inquisition. The indignation may have been expected had I been a 17 year old who couldn't produce the information and hence could not get what he wanted (and would instead receive the ridicule of his friends as well as the barman of, say, the Kings Arms on Blackboy Hill in 1992). I feigned that I might not have the necessary ID, I wanted to push the system, see if the ludicrous request would be withdrawn. Some diplomatic right not to have to identify myself seemed to be exerting itself in my brain. "Do you know who I am, woman? I'm British, don't you know?" Not to mention 32. For all she knew I could have kids at home, a big job and a mortgage. (But I have none of these things which probably leaves me fresher faced). I should have refused to purchase, that would have scuppered their prohibition inquisition. I asked (half seriously) if someone could take a photo of this. I mean, how paranoid must she have been that I was underage but had upgraded the usual disguise of a fluffy Barry Macguigan moustache by deviously eating too many pies, shaving my hairline and attaching some prosthetic wrinkles in order to purchase from under her nose a bottle of Banrock Station?

I quipped to the ex-pat check-out boy that I must be using the right facial moisturiser and left, still rehearsing in my head the altercation I might have had if I had declined to purchase and taken my business elsewhere. I should have told her it wasn't for me, I was buying it for the group of 14yr old girls in the car park. I can be a belligerent old git at times can't I?

It turns out in this case that I don't actually still look 18. The new store policy is to check people who appear to be under 30, after a sting operation by NZ police and a pending prosecution for selling to minors. I chuckled to myself at the thought of them sending in minors with beards and tattoos. The store supervisors now suspect everyone. As I was packing my provisions into the bike, I could see the supervisor through the window checking the old boy with the zimmer frame and the colostomy bag who could quite easily have nipped out of the playground at break time for plastic surgery and Oscar winning prosthetics in order to buy a mini bottle of Jack Daniels to share with the rest of Form 3. It is, after all, a funny old world.



[PHOTOS of Takaka and Abel Tasman National Park to follow...]

Leaving for Takaka

Takaka. Pronounced Tar-k'-ka. Don't know what's there. But I have a place to stay with some nice sounding people. I will be leaving Picton and Paua shells to hit the road again.

I was in the sea this afternoon, snorkelling in crystal clear sea. The temperature is around 23 C. The summer is starting. And I keep forgetting it is almost Christmas, because it is not raining, drizzling, spitting or snowing. Don't know how Santa is supposed to get around without snow. And besides, most Kiwi home don't have central heating let alone a chimney breast. Despite this the shops are full of glitz and tinsel, snowmen and Santas and baubels. Which never fails to make me frown. It is like every shop is a Poundsaver with an off season sale of last year's unwanted decorations. Christmas glitz is never more tacky than when it is displayed off season. Believe me, here is off season- I'm running out of sunbloc!

Paua to the people

When I was 15, I did a computerised questionnaire in the Careers Department at school which sought to determine a compatible career path by way of multiple choice and psycho analysis. My preferences for out doors work and practical people orientated and entrepreneurial roles were analysed. Laughably enough it suggested I become a farmer. What a waste of 14 quid, which was a lot of money in those days.

Before I left for NZ, I was given some contacts by Cath and Hamish in Bristol. I phoned to introduce myself and was immediately invited to stay. Kiwi hospitality triumphs again.

These contacts, David and Kathy, were fantastic hosts, wonderfully warm and brilliant conversation. They gave me carte blanche on their house and made me feel right at home. We spent last Sunday night with a marvellous glass of Marlborough wine, the crossword and some soul-deep conversation.

They introduced me to two important things. 1. A Marine Farmer called Alex. 2. Sauvignon Blanc from the Saint Clair Vinyard. The wine was the most buttery, fruity-soft white. Available at 22 GBP in the UK it was but 10 pounds from the vineyard shop. I was sorely tempted to send some home, but it was evident that the post office don’t do envelopes big enough.

I was introduced to Alex at the Anglican church where Hamish and Cath met David and Kathy almost a year ago. Alex and his wife only attend sporadically but over breakfast that morning at 9am they felt, out of the blue, that they wanted to go to church. Perhaps you would call it the butterfly effect, numerous small influences adding up to a significant result. They attended, David introduced me, I said I was looking for work, Alex faced a horrendous week of catching up with jobs on his Paua farm. Just minutes after the service, I had been given a job for the week. To me it’s a clear example of God’s subtle provision - for both of us.

Now, I have to admit that I have developed a slightly withered work ethic. Part-time teaching and latterly wheeler dealing has facilitated my working as a volunteer intern for Woodlands, but has made me a little unused to orthodox full working hours. I am not a slacker. It is just that my focus on a normal job was always eroded by the need to be somewhere else, collecting a motorbike, moving a fridge, painting a ceiling, selling a car, packing some parcels, sorting something for my dappy female housemates… life was a list of things to do- and I loved it. But, perhaps that was for a time and that time is certainly not now. Earning money to pay your way often comes down to honest, hard work. And cor blimey have I found some honest hard work!

I knew it would mean being up early but it was the sort of early that makes you wonder if it was worth going to bed the night before. (Well, okay, 5.20am – but then I am a land lubber city type). On the water for 6am. Dawn would emerge through the mists over the Sounds. The twin prop, twin Volvo engined 400hp launch took us out to the marine farm in the Tory Channel, skipping and thudding across the choppy sea. White gumboots, yellow rubber trousers (!) and a lifejacket – I looked quite the sea dog. The work is varied and revolves around growing and feeding paua shellfish. Otherwise known as abalone, the NZ variety is famed for its stunning blue swirls in its shell, and its pearls which are rare but which can be propagated by certain methods, about which I am sworn to secrecy (seriously). Inside an upturned shell you will see this delicate haemophiliac mollusc is a large liquorice black muscular foot, which lolls and twists like a demented tongue. The meat is worth $100 a kg. The shells can be shined to stunning beauty and the pearls are worth a fortune. The organisms are kept in barrels resembling a cylindrical bin with mesh windows and a mesh lid. The barrels are attached to a taut line of buoys and sink below the surface. Each barrel is regularly cleaned, and the paua are fed seaweed which is grown on the weighted ropes also attached to the main lines. The lines are serviced from a barge which looks like it could have been a Blue Peter project, but in fact is ingeniously designed and there is no sign of sticky back plastic or glue gun. It comprises an enclosed cabin/work area, an outboard motor, a Honda generator, water blasters, winches, doors for blocking the wind, a kettle, solar charged batteries and a heated towel rail (towel hook in motor housing for constant drying effect). Blasting the algae off the barrels covers you in green slime, your hands are never dry- if you are not hosing down shellfish, you are lifting and sorting seaweed from the lines. Big brown slimy varieties which the paua love to munch on. There is more to it than this, but you get the picture. The work is not easy, but the days are enjoyable, broken by the tea breaks, the sandwiches and the boat trips to visit the Whaling Station where the company diver lives and who dives from our boat to connect underwater lines and service anchors. My sea legs weren’t too good to start with, and my head is still swaying even as I sit here to type, but I was quite au-fait with the boating thing in the end. It is in the blood after years of family outings on the Avon and Kennett Coal Canal and the Bristol docks on my dad's river boat called Woof Woof.

I have had a brilliant experience. The water and the islands make for a great view from the office window. The open space, life’s different pace, the solitude of the calming glassy blue sea quietly going about its business of hosting some of the most fascinating animal creations. I have learned so much. Most of all, that gimmicky careers software can be of value... Actually it might have been right.

Leaving for South Island

Despite the rain and Friday Wellington traffic, I made it to the ship exactly on time. I queued on the dock side, fully loaded up, vying with the usual holiday makers loaded to the roof racks. Surfers, bungy jumpers, German tourists. There was only one other biker on the ferry. I teetered up the slippery on-ramp and parked next to his rare Laverda SFC 1000. I had grave concerns about the fastening of the bike to the deck. His was professionally tethered with new shiny load-straps. Fantastic. None of the dodgy, oily ratchets usual on the Portsmouth-LeHarve route. I pulled in next to the Italian classic. The on-ramp staff seemed to ignore me. I could see no more ratchets amongst the ragged collection of ropes and rubber chock blocks on the wall rack. It was quickly apparent that I was supposed to secure the bike myself. Mr Laverda must have brought his own straps. What does he know that I do not? After looking helpless for a few minutes (not entirely feigned) I was assisted by Mick, who was evidently some kind of deck manager, or at least someone who thought he deserved the title of Assistant (to the) Deck Manager. He was English, south east London to be precise. A bit of a geezer. He quickly delegated the oily rope tying to another deck-hand and receded from view. Lots of deck to survey, lots of other deck hands to oversee.
[pic here]
The bike was tethered in a slightly Neanderthal manner and left fully laden to brave the unpredictably tumultuous seas of the Cook Strait. The previous day had seen 75mph winds as part of the coldest, wettest October/November seen here since 1967. Luckily for me and the Africa Twin, the crossing was flat and easy.
[pic here]
This whole experience evoked memories of the recent bike trip to France accompanying my brother and my dad, only this trip was missing the caravans, the kid’s magician, the arcade machines, the Banyuels Dauré and the croquet-monsieur. And the French. Despite this, I accidentally tried to order deux café au lait et une bouteille de l’eau. The staff member replied in English. So, exactly like in France then. Except the on-board prices are fair and so is the service. The servery attendant even agreed to charge my camera battery.

I found a comfy seat in a corner with a table. All the best spots had gone. Mostly because of sleeping middle aged men with caps over their eyes. There are always tired people on a ferry, whatever time of day. Surely it is a tactic to obtain for themselves more personal space, or perhaps a way of avoiding the awkward chit-chat of over-talkative locals; the sort that see your baggage and your tired face and say “So, you’re on a journey, then?”

The ferry had likely been in service in the English Channel, given that some of the signage was still in French. The safety announcer came on over the tannoy: English, London accent, sounded a lot like Robert Brindley. The announcer’s tone of voice expressed a slightly inebriated boredom mixed with mild condescension. I expect he’d had enough of the Plymouth-Roscoff route and thought he would come to the antipodes for a change of scenery, only to end up on a Euro boat shipping mostly Euro passengers across an equally squalid channel of water. Somewhat unprofessionally he announced that the driver of a Renault Espace had left an interior light on… and if said driver didn’t “return to the hold before departure he’d be pushing the damn thing for the rest of the holiday”. The attempt at comedy might have been appropriate, even expected on a FirstTrains express from Bristol to Swansea, but I expected more of the crew of this magnificent liner.
[pic here]
I exchanged greetings with the guy next to me, who was towing a glider, the longest vehicle on the ferry, for a friend in the south for whom he was doing a favour.

Then suddenly, the familiar wideboy voice continued in front of me. The announcer turned out to be Mick, who swaggered out from behind the café servery, East End panache oozing from him like Del Boy on a pina colada booze cruise. Speaking loudly to all the foreigners (to help them understand him) he eyed the German backpackers and somehow managed to sound provocatively inquisitive by simply asking “Where are you from?” A tone of voice which turned to resigned indifference when it wasn’t followed by a request for his phone number or an enquiry as to when he knocked off after work. Masterful.

I was quickly spotted by Laverda man who sat with me to talk bikes, despite the fact I was clearly in the middle of a quite taxing crossword in the Wellington Dominion Post. In his sixties already, he was riding a newly imported addition to his personal museum of magnificent motorcycle mementos from Italy. At the talk of routes and mountain tracks we were swiftly joined by Glider man who, did you know, was towing a glider for a friend of his in the south. After hearing about a few routes, and a bit more about the glider, the conversation dried up and I returned my attention to 14 down.
[pic here]
The islands are only 20km apart but the journey is three hours, taking a donkey leg route out from Wellington and up the Cook Strait and round into the Marlborough Sounds. The magnificent deep blue sea glistened, the islands and the headlands of the Sounds loomed beautifully on either side of the ship. Private boats buzzed past, one sitting in the flattened wake of the huge ferry, the marine equivalent to slipstreaming due to the decreased resistance of the flattened waves, which proved hugely important to photograph for the tourists on the observation deck.

It was slightly odd to exit a ferry and still be in the same country. No passport control, no threat of Customs looking for large consignments of Polish made bayonets. Judging by the weather, it was as if I had left Cardiff harbour in the rain and landed on the Spanish Riviera. I rolled off into blazing sunshine. I’d had a good time in the north island, had met some great people through some mind blowing small-world contacts, but as we’d coasted into Picton harbour I had a real sense that the south island would bring a new slant, a fresh start, a new potential for work and for adventure.

Dr Evil's Secret Hide Out?

**See the all new pictures of Bristol friends
and family in the last album in Photo Gallery.**

The following account may only really interest fellow adventure riders. Except perhaps for the competition I have set - with a prize....

STOP PRESS - Competition has a winner - click the Comment at the end of this entry and click the link in his response. - STOP PRESS

After a quiet week making job enquiries and not getting very far, I have decided to head for the south island by middle of next week. But the weather is supposed to be bad from Tuesday. But after today, I'm inclined not to care. I've just had a fantastic ride through the Wellington wilderness in near gale force winds and it was phenomenal.

Remember how I happened to meet the guy who owns the land I was trying to access beyond Devil's Gate? (see by earlier posts). Well I visited him yesterday and organised to ride through to the coast today.

His house is in the middle of two thousand acres of rocky, gorse covered wilderness right on the edge of Wellington. 50kms of track wind through the gorges to Hawkins Hill 500m above sea level.
It was like entering some lost valley in a film, a secluded Bond villain's hide out. The privilege of being invited there made it more adventurous. No nagging feeling that I might be tresspassing, just relaxed exploration. Steep gravelly slopes of yellow-brown rock, steep volvanic hills, rambling, sweeping below me.

The cloud was covering the top, the wind was blasting in from the sea, the mist blown fast like top-snow in a blizzard. The mist obscured the view to the left, down the steep short valley, the sea occasionally appearing like a deep blue phantom in the mist. I tried to photograph it but the breaks were too brief.

Suddenly, appearing magically out of the mist I saw ramparts.. a mock castle. An extravagant miniature of Castle Court near the Showcase cinema. Unoccupied, tidy garden, high fence. How strange. It was painted orange. I bet you can see it if you look on GoogleEarth. First person to mail me the screen-print gets a prize... I mean it. Look for the orange castle in the hills above Owhira Bay, south of Wellington.

If you can't find the castle it will probably be next to the enormous spherical radar installation. This ride just got wierder. Beyond the castle, the road twisted and out of the mist came something out of Dr No. The secret nemesis' communications tower just next to a steel doored bunker placed unassumingly in the rockface. What is this place? Have I befriended Wellington's Dr Blowfeld?

Then a little further on, the valley opened up to my right and lower than the mist I could see a short landing strip, and two tracks sinking deep into the hills. The track was suddenly sheltered by the higher ridge protecting me from the wind until I passed a gap when its full and surprising force would swerve me, lightening the bike and moving me closer to the edge.

Lower down still, I followed the track to my friend's house. A normal sized house in the most abnormally sized back yard. He sent me up one of the tracks to crest the hill and then head down to the beach. The track was steeper than anything I have taken this bike on yet, standing on the pegs to gain extra flexibility and increase weight over the front wheel. The weather was still fearsome, concentration on the unpredictable surface made me very focused.

After the peak, the track became rougher with larger stones, the cloud stayed high and I could see the dark grey sand of the beach forming a sweeping sickle around beautiful aquamarine waters which were calm yet pitted by the swirling wind, patterns made like the down draught of a helicopter.


I reached the beach, the coast line was familiar from my previous visit from the other direction yet I had not travelled this far. The gravel became pebbles and the bike swished through the ruts. I knew if I stopped I would likely be stuck. Then shale, and undulating compacted stone. I gathered speed standing again for control. I was Ewan McGregor crossing Mongolia again. Then out along the red rocks to Devil's Gate.

By this point I was hot. It is hard work riding in these conditions. I stopped for a break and to view the seal. It was enormous, lumbering, and too far for my zoom lens but still, you don't get that down at Portishead so it was worth a few photos. The kelp wafted around in the water making the sea seem alive.


Spot the sealion









As I sat contemplating Devil's Gate, another motorcycle appeared from the direction I had come. A 200cc Kawazaki loaded up with an enormous carrier box full of freshly harvested sea food. The guy bumped on past, no biker camraderie from this one. He headed for the gap in the rock and disappeared over the other side. I ran to get a second picture. It was only 40 yds away but by the time I'd sprinted there, the rider had already seemingly accelerated beyond all possibility half way to the next cove. I chuckled. "Run Forrest, run!"

The Devil's Gate drop was easy and I bumped down on to familiar turf. Now, the farmer had mentioned the gate at the bottom, the access onto the beach. Closed on Sundays... ahh. So after all that I was trapped. I would have to return over the hills through the farmland. First through Devil's Gate... I should have thought this through. I was stuck between a padlock and a devil of a rock. I would have to try Devil's Gate. I saw visions again of broken plastics and scratched paintwork.

I tried. The approach angle was good. The scree had shifted and offered me a better surface than before. I bumped up the front wheel - and stopped. Suddenly top heavy and too high to put my feet down. I had failed. Not enough guts - in me that is. I needed a run up and more speed. No way. I would have to go back and wait for the gatekeeper...

On the way back again to the locked gate I spotted two motorcross riders coming down the goat track away to the left. I stopped for some biker chat in the hope they had a key. No chance. But they did offer to help me through Devil's Gate. So, somewhat reluctantly, I tried again. I couldn't wimp out now. Rob and Caleb stood either side ready to grab and pull. I got the angle right, then added more speed and popped up over the ridge. I had done it. Just because of their moral support I had breached the Devil's Gate.

So we rode together back up to the secret Bond nemesis hide out and back into the mist and cloud. The two RM250s zipped off ahead, making light work of the scrabbley surface and steep rocky bits. I was like a lumbering elephant chasing a couple of hyenas. Just goes to show what a difference the right bike can make. Not that I am complaining. The Africa Twin had done me proud. I had a few near slips but made it back to the radar station and out, without dropping it once.

The rain had started but I didn't notice. I had just had the hardest, steepest, windiest ride of the trip and I was buzzing.

Coming Soon: NZ culture. What is it?