Methven is a ski resort. It bustles in the winter time, but is very quiet in the summer. However, a few forays past the horse poo sign to the village centre were a welcome pastime for me. The cafes were mostly open, the ATM finally said “yis”, and The Four Square supermarket enabled the opportunity of engaging in conversation with someone other than a top loader washing machine.

In fact, it is very easy to talk to people here.  While meandering past the Red Cross Shop (in the slim hope of browsing for second hand kitchen equipment) I absorbed the obligatory sign telling customers to take their work boots off and noted that the lovely volunteer ladies were not planning to turn up and open the shop on any day before 1pm. Exception: Saturday 10 till 12.  As I had timed my excursion (badly) for Morning Tea Time, I had no chance. A man screeched to a halt on his bike next to me. We had a chat about opening times and agreed that it was quite OK to come back later.

Following this I had an intimate conversation with a little hairy dog who was trying to persuade me to stop by his art shop. Followed by one or two human “gudays”. Then there was the dog who was just getting some exercise from his comfy bed outside the Real Estate shop and was a little too busy to stop and pass the time of day.

I walked as far as the smart new building which proudly proclaims itself as Methven Library and Museum. I have fond memories of the original library which sadly did not survive the 2011 earthquake. But even an earthquake is unable to change some things on South Island. Closed. I probably need to turn up on Friday afternoon to have any chance of perusing the contents. I shall save that treat for another day. A Friday.

On the way up the deserted Main Street I rest my memory foam under a bench outside the Medical Centre, which is wonderful and proclaims it’s wares on the roof. Medical, X-rays, Dental. Physiotherapy is just next door. Hydrangeas adorn the attractive exterior. So simple. So efficient. You know exactly what you are going to get before you walk in.

My eye is caught by a large sign further up the road which says “Car and Dog Wash”.

I read this several times. I wonder if I am suffering from culture clash and a “dog” must be a kind of New Zealand truck rather than a Labrador with a waggy tail. Hell no! I looked it up later and Facebook can’t be wrong. There is a photo of a large Doberman enjoying a lovely shower in a huge bath. What an excellent plan! Wash your dog when you wash your car. The sign says it all! Not sure this would catch on in Blighty though. What would the lovely Eastern Europeans at the local car wash say if I turned up and asked them to clean a Staffordshire Bull Terrier? Probably charge me double.