Wednesday, February 22, 2006
This week I am in the North West of the South Island. Even kiwis acknowledge a cerain lack of finesse when it came to naming places since the North Island is called just that. Better still was the small town of National Park where I was in the other night. No matter the beauty speaks for it self.
These last few days I was walking on the Abel Tasman track which follows from Marahau to Wainui via some stunning golden sand beaches and mercifully shady winding paths. I had to book this in advance and subsequently did so with no grasp for where things were. It was only when I set out that I realised my 4 nights accomodation were never more than 3 hours walk from one another. Having consulted a map I decided to just show up at the most useful campsite and hope that everything would work out. The peak season has just passed so I was in luck although 8 hours on the track doesn't make you a very able explainer. "I er yes, um , Paul Smith, tent please".
The first day I walked in the company of an Onatrio resident who outlined his walking plans that seemed to take in most of New Zealand before heading to Australia to run a marathon. Unsurprisingly I didn't have the pace to stick with him for all the crafty breathers I managed to grab when he was taking photos. My first nights camping spot was reached by 3 in the afternoon which was perfect time to swim and read whilst avoiding being eaten alive by sand fly.
I am presently reading the Return of the King which was the only book on the exchange shelf more preferable to staring blankly in to space. Subsequently everything I now do is imbued with a heroic colouring. Pull out some pipe weed and I will tell tales of crossing vultures creek to keep you awake at night. It must have been at least ankle deep and flowing like holiday traffic on the A303.
The second day ended at an estuary which could be crossed only at low tide which presently fell after 6 in the evening and before 11 in the morning so I deided to wait for the morning. Strangely for the middle of a national park there was a fairly swanky lodge resort where the wilderness receded slightly to allow for the niceties of internet access and cold beer.
The last day was probably the hardest since I had been carrying all my camping gear and my feet were considering a divorce. Having ditched my pack at campsite I back tracked to Seperation Point which is the effective meeting point of West and North coast. Any hopes of triuphant photograph died when my camera did likewise but the view was worth it.
This morning I walked the hour and a half to the tracks end and then a fair way up the road out of the park itself before thumbing a ride back to Nelson. This came via a local engineer who dropped me in a crossraods town where I was picked up by a family of 4 that live in a converted coach. The grandparents were along for the ride and I think they, like the dad was German whilst his wife was English and the kids sounded like New Zealanders. There didn't care what I was up to so I didn't ask any questions. Finally the last stretch was completed after a short wait during which a policeman pulled up heaving mistaken me for someone else. The last driver was a German girl heading to the surf town of Kaikoura on Saturday so I may go with if I can't find some apple picking work here.
These last few days I was walking on the Abel Tasman track which follows from Marahau to Wainui via some stunning golden sand beaches and mercifully shady winding paths. I had to book this in advance and subsequently did so with no grasp for where things were. It was only when I set out that I realised my 4 nights accomodation were never more than 3 hours walk from one another. Having consulted a map I decided to just show up at the most useful campsite and hope that everything would work out. The peak season has just passed so I was in luck although 8 hours on the track doesn't make you a very able explainer. "I er yes, um , Paul Smith, tent please".
The first day I walked in the company of an Onatrio resident who outlined his walking plans that seemed to take in most of New Zealand before heading to Australia to run a marathon. Unsurprisingly I didn't have the pace to stick with him for all the crafty breathers I managed to grab when he was taking photos. My first nights camping spot was reached by 3 in the afternoon which was perfect time to swim and read whilst avoiding being eaten alive by sand fly.
I am presently reading the Return of the King which was the only book on the exchange shelf more preferable to staring blankly in to space. Subsequently everything I now do is imbued with a heroic colouring. Pull out some pipe weed and I will tell tales of crossing vultures creek to keep you awake at night. It must have been at least ankle deep and flowing like holiday traffic on the A303.
The second day ended at an estuary which could be crossed only at low tide which presently fell after 6 in the evening and before 11 in the morning so I deided to wait for the morning. Strangely for the middle of a national park there was a fairly swanky lodge resort where the wilderness receded slightly to allow for the niceties of internet access and cold beer.
The last day was probably the hardest since I had been carrying all my camping gear and my feet were considering a divorce. Having ditched my pack at campsite I back tracked to Seperation Point which is the effective meeting point of West and North coast. Any hopes of triuphant photograph died when my camera did likewise but the view was worth it.
This morning I walked the hour and a half to the tracks end and then a fair way up the road out of the park itself before thumbing a ride back to Nelson. This came via a local engineer who dropped me in a crossraods town where I was picked up by a family of 4 that live in a converted coach. The grandparents were along for the ride and I think they, like the dad was German whilst his wife was English and the kids sounded like New Zealanders. There didn't care what I was up to so I didn't ask any questions. Finally the last stretch was completed after a short wait during which a policeman pulled up heaving mistaken me for someone else. The last driver was a German girl heading to the surf town of Kaikoura on Saturday so I may go with if I can't find some apple picking work here.
