A Suffolk Traveller

We were out on one of our Ashburton shopping forays, when we decided to drop in at the Chertsey Book Barn. We had no intention of buying any books.

This is an old wheat barn that stands beside the railway track. Visitors pull up in the rough car park and then squeeze in through the side door. Once through the door it is almost impossible not to gasp. The barn is huge, and every square metre is full of second hand books of all sizes and genres. Heaving higgeldy-piggeldy bookshelves are crammed in throughout the yawning space. It feels that it might be necessary to unravel a piece of twine in order to negotiate the dim passages and find the way back to the light. One side of the barn is dissected by a partition, beyond which countless boxes of books loom in mountainous stacks right up to the roof – all waiting to be sorted.

We scarcely noticed a woman sitting behind a counter. This was partly because she was too busy to say hello, and partly because she was almost buried under boxes as she mined their contents. Instead we were met by a very handsome ginger cat sitting on a broken chair, who miaowed an introduction and proceeded to show us around. In reality he was probably pleased to see someone with hands available for stroking, who was not a book, or holding a book, or unwinding a piece of twine. I suspect his name is Zag. I only suspect this because I later found out that his brother is called Zig. Could be wrong.

New books are rather expensive to buy in New Zealand, so we were not alone in this place. As we plunged further into the maze, accompanied by our whiskered guide, we occasionally stumbled upon other explorers. They were browsing in corners, delving in piles, or sliding round battered tables and shelves, totally immersed in their discoveries. Zag was rapidly loosing interest as our hands became full.  We negotiated children’s fiction, cooking, and medical self help, explored the room of fantasy books and then hunted for C in general fiction. This was not an easy task. The handwritten labels were  visible and orange, but often obscured by height or…you guessed it…books. Eventually we came across the woman and the counter again, Zag having long since abandoned us for a much younger explorer whose mother was wielding a phone to take pictures. We had to pause a moment while the woman at the counter slammed a box down onto the floor, then we paid our dollars and squeezed out. She retreated behind a new pile.

“I thought we weren’t buying any books!” Said Hubby, clutching his hardback by Chris Ryan.

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.

I feel that I must apologise for the lack of scenery. There is plenty of it, and it is amazing, but it has recently been hiding behind clouds and cyclones. The reality is that life goes on, with or without beaches and snow capped mountains. At least the South Island has been much luckier with the sun recently than the poor old North Island.

On this particular Sunday in January the sky was a wonderful dome of blue. We turned our backs on the at-last-visible summit of Mount Hutt, and headed for the Banks Peninsular, named after the naturalist Joseph Banks by Captain Cook. The peninsular sticks out like a craggy thumb from the side of South Island, beside Christchurch, and was formed millions of years ago by volcanic eruptions. It is a maze of bays and coves, and the views from almost anywhere are spectacular. Following Highway 75 to its logical conclusion brings you to the pretty French Heritage harbour town of Akaroa. The French who came in 1840 were whalers, and they left behind a number of huge iron cauldrons which are now arranged artistically along the beautiful harbour front. Happily, the whales and dolphins bring a different income to this coastline now. I wondered if the bossy British ever got put in these pots, and whether they are now kept on display as a warning to tourists. Hubby says not! But a timely reminder of history.

We wandered along in the sunshine, enjoying the sparkling blue water, little wharfs and bobbing white boats, occasionally being given the evil eye by seagulls. At a little coffee shop we ordered coffee and frittata and sat outside. The table next to us became empty, the previous occupants having committed the sin of leaving a few chips on their plates. The pirate gulls had chosen a vantage point on the roof of a parked car and they mobbed the little table, squawking and scattering cutlery. Then they returned to their perch to stalk the next customers (us). I knew that sun hat from The Warehouse would come in handy! Never park outside a café in Akaroa.

After a bit more happy wandering, many photos and a brief dive into a shop, (a lot of tutting from Hubby), we left Akaroa behind and meandered back towards Highway 1. On the way we found a little bay at Wainui and sat on a handily placed picnic bench to listen to the waves and admire the blue beyond where the inlet meets the ocean. Behind us the cabbage trees, pampas and blue Agapanthus rustled in the sea breeze and the Bell Bird called. Just a few swimmers on the beach, and a group of black snorkelers bobbing like seals in the shallows. No ice creams or Ferris wheels here. Just New Zealand.

Rumour has it that during the March 2020 lockdown God was discovered chilling out here in New Zealand. When asked, “What’re you doing here?” He replied, “Working from home”. On this particular weekend, God was on the South Island.

NZTV1 was unusually gloomy. Daniel the newscaster tried to keep upbeat, but every time the weathercaster appeared wearing her shiny red polyester pleated skirt and yellow top his face took on a “oh well, we will have to make the best of it” look. North Island was under water. The winds blew and the rain came down. Bedraggled holiday makers clad in rain ponchos gave evidence of wrecked tents. The inter island ferry was still attempting journeys across the Cook Straight but warning passengers not to travel if they were prone to sea sickness. Tugs were employed to pull the ferries containing vomiting passengers into port.

January is the school summer holiday season here, so amid this Armageddon, when families were forced to abandon the beach for indoor aquariums, the sun rose pleasantly over South Island. We gathered our hats and climbed into the truck amid bits of field and empty disposable coffee cups. We headed out on Highway 72 and drove along the foothills of the Southern Alps towards Geraldine. But we never got there because we turned off towards Peel forest and then onto the Rangitata Gorge road. The sign informed us that this was a dead end, so we went along for the ride, expecting to bump into a mountain before too long.

We drove and drove. From empty sealed road to rumbling gravel track we followed the river valley up towards Cloudy Mountain, drinking in the glory of God’s backyard under the blue sky. The great velvet slopes, the wide braids of blue water, the green green paddocks and fields of wildflowers and willows. The sheep grumbled at us, the paddocks of deer lifted startled heads and then ignored us, the Aberdeens and Herefords grazed contentedly, and the mighty muscled Charolais bulls sunbathed in the grass. Every now and then we came across a narrow bridge, a ford, or a lonely ship-lapped house with a view to die for. There were regular signs that told us this was a school bus route, and finally there was a silent fire station. The sun was high over the cloud topped peaks and we had still not reached the end of the road. Any time now it seemed that we would fall over the top and land on the West Coast – although we knew this was impossible without tramping. So close. We turned back, stopping for photos that would never be able to tell the true story of our senses.

It seemed a lot quicker on the way back. Always the case. We drove back through the gorge, and stopped at a small cafe with umbrellas, black sun sails and stools made out of old tractor seats. Sausage rolls and coffee were consumed gratefully, the little woodland sparrows being charmingly preferable to the pirate seagulls of Christchurch. Then a walk uphill through Peel Forest to admire The Big Tree. Originally titled, this is a huge Totara tree that seeded before the Norman Conquest, and has a trunk girth that defied the family of five who asked us to take a photo of them trying to reach round it. They only got half way.

On the return journey we stopped at Staveley Store. This is probably one of the best places in the world to eat a double Tip Top ice cream cone. We sat under the gnarled old tree outside, watching a coach load of weary tourists admiring a small wooden shack (the Staveley geological museum). We wondered along to look at the little Presbyterian church (a suitable activity for a Sunday afternoon) and drove home for a cup of tea.

New Zealand is often associated with hobbits, sunshine and snow capped mountains. Even the orcs rarely go out in drizzle (although driving rain is another matter altogether). Hubby was rained-off work at the weekend. Once we had planned a future adventure and drunk a few cups of coffee we felt the onset of cabin fever. We bravely attempted a walk to Methven to buy bread, but were forced to retreat due to cold rain on Hubby’s shorts clad legs. The Impatiens plant looked happy though.

By the evening the rain had stopped sufficiently for us to go hunting for our supper. We walked to The Blue Pub, noting the sign on the door which ordered work boots to be removed on entry. Luckily we had not been at work and no one seemed to object to the memory foam, so we ordered cider and burgers and climbed up onto high stools to enjoy the ambiance. The bar(n) was high roofed with several TVs in the rafters showing cricket and tennis. The music playing was just enough to induce a gentle bottom bounce. The woman on the table next to us was doing a much more active bounce. She had been temporarily abandoned by her partner, but she had brought Grandad along on her smart phone. So no worries. Grandad joined in merrily as she swung him round to view the company and he enjoyed a little sit against a beer glass.

Best to treat Bulmers cider with caution if you are not used to drinking it by the pint. By the time I had eaten the burger and downed the cider I was in serious danger of falling off the high stool and sliding across the shiny wooden floor. I made it safely, only to have to then negotiate Four Square supermarket to buy bread. The aisles swam in front of my eyes, but luckily Hubby took charge of the purchases which were placed thoughtfully in a little box by the packer, and we went home to enjoy Saturday evening on Netflix.

I have always held the opinion that boredom is a state of mind that can and should be immediately remedied. I refuse to get bored.

It was in this spirit that I completed my household chores to the sound of Amazing Grace played on a distant set of Methven bagpipes. Hubby was at work so I researched for an upcoming trip, and finally turned to the in-house library. There are eight books in the library. There is a copy of The Holy Bible, the crisp and spotlessly unread pages of Deuteronomy hiding between dingy covers. There is a biography of a very important outdoorsy red faced man, three tired paperback novels, the obligatory Dan Brown – The Da Vinci Code (hard-backed and illustrated), Gok Wan working his wardrobe and Trinny and Susannah as seen on TV. Endless happy memories whirl round in my head.

Trinny and Suzannah offered “The Survival Guide”at a time when shopping online was still a little avant guard for busy mothers, super fast fibre was science fiction in Norfolk, and Apps were only for the daring. “How to look terrific all the time, balance work, home, children and social life and still have time for yourself”, they gurgle triumphantly. This is like the pension scam that is too good to be true. Nothing will ever come of it. It is a perversion of the universe.

My eye was drawn to a pertinent section on packing for holidays and long haul flights which includes innovative suggestions for entertaining children. These include magnetic snakes and ladders, “Fuzzy Felt (it sticks)” and a portable CD player. Bribes include Smarties for counting games, presumably subtraction. The page is illustrated with a fuzzy felt picture of cats, squirrels and horses, and a large photo of a bottle of Piriton Syrup (that well known remedy for active children). Suggestions for the adult in-flight kit include homeopathic pills and multi vitamins (fast acting, one wonders?), pillow spray and an iPod (what’s that?). “Make your seat into a little home” they happily intone. Oh yeah. Each section of this indispensable survival guide comes with a diagram illustrating the rules of what one should wear if one has big tits, no tits, flabby tummy or saddlebags. Depending on the occasion there might also be advice for big bums, short legs, big arms and hapless waistless people. No men’s outfits are included. There is no advice for disguising a beer belly at a football match. What they have failed to understand is that most of us – alas – fall into more than one category and some of us now feel we must take refuge under a duvet or large kaftan and hide in number 37b in New Zealand.

I put the book back on the TV stand next to the benign Gok Wan. That one is for another day girlfriend.

During the evening we treat ourselves to NZ TV channel 1 news, which follows Bradley Walsh in The Chase (they obviously don’t like Pointless here). The news is always delivered cheerfully in very direct language. Following the new year there were some very sad news stories of people being drowned in dangerous seas off the coast of North Island. There was flooding and storm damage as a result of Cyclone Hale. Then news of a horrible helicopter crash on the Gold Coast of Australia (a favourite holiday destination for Kiwis).

Harry and Meghan and a stray UK walrus made star appearances. The release of “Spare” had quite an impact in New Zealand, and was often referred to by newscasters as “The Harry Hoo-ha”. Quite accurate I think. The news is interspersed with adverts for expensive household paint, sofas and insurance. New World is also advertising its online delivery service. Good luck to them! I cannot imagine their delivery service will extend to some of the sparsely populated farms and cattle stations in the Southern Alps.

As we don’t follow Coronation Street, Hubby resorted to Prime and those perennial US favourites about locker pickers and pawn stars (no, not THAT sort of porn). Then it was Police Interceptors in Derbyshire. Who watches that over here? Answer: we do. Hmmmph. The kindle came in handy, and thank goodness Hubby has accidentally stumbled on my Netflix account.

One day, soon after new year, a slightly abrupt email arrived. The solicitor could not reach me on my mobile number. The buyers want to exchange and complete on our house TODAY. Emails and messages fly through the stratosphere. International calls are enabled just in case our fee stretches to such extravagance. The next morning is devoted to oil bills and estate agents who are either on holiday, just back from holiday and not concentrating, or part time. Hubby is at work or asleep, the in-between phase being devoted to pickers or interceptor cops. We manage a late night Skype call to a happy solicitor in Bungay who finally sorts everything out.

Hubby was chuffed to get a winning raffle ticket at work. This is a great example of Kiwi positivity and pragmatism. Every Christmas the company gets a number of gratuitous items donated by associated companies. These include hampers, bottles of wine and other lovely things, all clearly marked with the donor’s advertising logos. The items are put into a big works raffle and one employee’s ticket is drawn out every day over the Christmas period. Great idea! Good advertising. Nice little fun bonus. Simon choose a wooden cheeseboard, which came with a handy bbq apron and a 2023 diary extolling the efficiency of Catalyst Performance Agronomy. These were presented to me triumphantly because I had casually made a comment that I had not got a diary yet. So now I have all the NZ bank holidays and a useful selection of year round tips to help me make the most of my land. I shall certainly be considering the timing of foliar fungicide on fodder beet this January. What happened to the wine and hampers?

Having finally got the front door code and decided that the new shoes needed an airing, I left the relative safety of 37b to walk into the town of Methven. Past the beautiful wildflower meadow with the white horse and the distant mountains, adorned with a large handwritten “Free Horse Poo” sign, (2 Dollars per bag scribbled out).

Aiming for the smart Memorial Hall with its I-Hub, I sauntered along the hot pavement, walking on my memory foam in a cautious pair of socks. The female assistant, barely visible behind the counter, popped her head above the parapet and assessed me with a practised gaze. “Browsing?” She said helpfully, but it was really an order.   So I browsed the curly leaflets dating back to 2019 (not their fault – it’s the pandemic…).

There was a big sign saying “Art Gallery”.  Always up for a bit of art, I wandered lonely as a cloud into the hall, peering at empty passageways and closed doors. Instead of art I found an interesting ANZAC display about local people, and a few poppies. There was even a creepy manikin dressed in some sort of flying uniform. This was carefully placed behind a door so it was able to surprise visitors interactively as they entered or turned to leave.  

Browsing politely, I realised that the art was scattered at long tasteful intervals in the corridors. Some of the pictures were even adorned with prices in the hopeful 200 Dollars range. Having spent a reasonable amount of time perusing these works of art,  I returned to the I-Hub where parapet woman had been joined by a mate and was enjoying a chin-wag, paying no attention to the elderly couple who were unfolding maps in the corner and getting in a muddle.  I clutched my leaflets and perfected my browsing mode some more by admiring Bill Irwin photographs, home made knitted woolly hats and various types of locally made soap.

At last I decided that I must approach the desk. My lurking presence was acknowledged.

“I am looking for information about the Transalpine Train,” I asked in a non threatening and conversational way. “Is it a good idea to look online?” BIG MISTAKE.

“Oh yis, it probably is!” Came the reply, but as I showed no sign of withdrawing into Browse mode, she remembered that she was at work and turned to the computer hidden ingeniously in the desk. “I suppose I can have a look”. Her friend turned out to be even more helpful than the computer and by the time I left I had been assured that I would not want to stay at Greymouth (said with a grimace) for a whole night and would be much better hiring a car to drive to the Pancake Rocks and staying there instead. I left with humble expressions of gratitude.

There is a great sinking feeling when you realise that you have flown 12000 miles and brought the wrong sandals. Christchurch had left my Northern Hemisphere winter body with blistered feet. So the final day of the New Year holiday was spent driving to the metropolis of Ashburton to remedy matters.

We wondered over the train track that runs through the middle of the town and down the high street, most of it closed for the holiday. We made for Farmers’ department store, standing stolidly on the corner. Like most places here, it looked closed in spite of the fact that it was actually open. The Kiwis do not seem to have the knack of catching passing trade. Their view is very direct. If you want something you will go and get it. The hard sell starts when you get inside.

We had some very specific shopping needs. Pyrex lidded dishes for the microwave do not seem to exist in this part of the world. Hubby has been looking since he got here. So we opted for a bone china lidded dish with 50% off.

From Farmers we went to The Warehouse. Here we purchased a pair of kitchen scissors, a sieve, a sun hat and a pair of uncomely mottled brown loafer shoes with memory foam for me. And a single Impatiens plant. Hubby was impatient with the Impatiens. But I told him I needed something to nurture (apart from him).

Finally we visited New World for food. Still the same red handled trolleys that scratch across the floor and get stuck. Oh for the Tesco glide. We examined the piles of apples and lettuces, peered at the fridges full of large chunks of cow and smaller chunks of chicken in various forms, and pondered over muesli. I made a point of getting apples, milk, honey and ice cream because these are invariably delicious in New Zealand.

We made for the tills, ready for the inevitable cheery “How are you today?” Which, when uttered by a Kiwi checkout person always sounds as though they really are interested in the answer. Unlike the somewhat potluck approach of the UK supermarket cashiers, which depend entirely upon whether they are having a good day or a bad day, and how near the end of their shift they are. If we could only bottle the Kiwi positivity, what millionaires we would be! But I would miss the surly cynicism and complicated humour of my fellow Brits. We are not so easily fooled by sunlight and scenery, are we?

They have built a new motorway at Christchurch since the earthquake disaster of 2011. This appears to have confused the South Islanders somewhat. They are not sure what to do when the slip road runs out.  Mind you, this is probably a fairly general global observation. There are two approaches: foot down and expect everyone to get out of the way, or cautiously adjust speed and pray that an enormous gap develops. Some drivers attempt both of these at the same time, which is not advisable.  We roar down Highway One in the works truck and turn off at the Rakaia Salmon. The hazy mountains grow closer as we zoom past the giant hedges on empty grey roads.

Soon the Methven Mount Hutt Village skis are above us at the crossroads, and the Blue and Brown pubs stand proudly on the street corners.

New Years Eve 2022. Everything closed. Hardly a soul in sight. Just a couple of lost tourists venturing out from their camper van in the optimistic hope of coffee.

I try to keep awake. I make it until 10.30 pm and then my chin sinks onto my chest and my eyes gently close. Happy New Year!

The senior body takes time to adjust as it copes with the release of cabin pressure, the effects of dehydration and permanently bent knees. Our New Year’s Day sightseeing consisted of a slow walk round Methven and a visit to the ATM machine to try my Eftpos card. The Four Square supermarket is still there, along with Dom’s pizza place, a Thai store and several cafes. The ATM said no and spat my card out. We drove to Staveley Store for coffee but that was closed. So we sauntered along the beautiful walkway at Sharplin Falls, watching the river as it bubbled over boulders surrounded by green ferns. They have had a wet season so far. Then we drove down to the Rakaia Gorge and wandered over the grey stones on the shore, watching the blue mountain water rush over the wide river bed.

The next day, feeling more rested, we drove to Christchurch and surveyed the still broken buildings in Cathedral Square, and the demolished spaces. They are still stabilising. There is boarding, metal gates and signs.  Only two hopeful stalls selling souvenirs in the square, but the trams are running. We wandered past the art gallery and college to the Botanical Gardens. The holiday crowds were here in the sun by the river, strolling among the roses and blue banks of Hydrangea and Agapanthus. The trees towered above us. The Avon tinkled by. We waited for a coffee and watched the seagulls prey on the crowded outdoor lunch tables. They swooped and squabbled when people left, smashing the cups onto the ground. The little waitress shrieked. She needs danger money.

We visited the glasshouse and admired the orchids, and saw the Christmas tree and Rudolph made entirely of ferns and red Poinsettas. We visited the much diminished museum to see the carvings, the Colonial Street and the Paua cottage with its shiny shell walls and faded photos.  Then we had a wonderful lunch in the sun.

Finally we drove up to the Port Hills to take in the views. We swayed up the hill in the gondola, looking down at the white surf of New Brighton beach and the glacier blue water of the overflow lakes. Beyond these stretched the white buildings of Christchurch, laid out below us like a tea tray. At the lookout we gazed down at the port of Lyttleton, smaller now, and still missing some of the great cruise ships of old. We ignored the shop, decided not to discover the Christchurch Discovery Experience, chatted to the friendly staff and braced ourselves for the motorway.