A Suffolk Traveller

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.

At last the darkness yields and we are flying over the Tasman Sea towards the Southern Alps. I cannot see the mountains but the inflight program tells me that they are there so it must be true. Another breakfast. This time it arrives less than 40 minutes before we land and is snatched away just in time for the descent. No omelettes left by the time the metal trolley reaches me. So it is noodles with unidentifiable vegetables. Quite tasty actually.

We land like thistledown and my forward seat means I can once again be one of the first off (behind the Germans). Through the gleaming emptiness of Duty Free. Through the E-passport counter – once I put my passport in the right way round and manage to ignore the humorous Kiwi customs officer who is standing behind me trying to put me off by saying “Yis” to the question about whether I had been in prison recently. It almost worked.

A smiley fair haired girl accepts my passenger arrival form and I conscientiously declare my toffees. Sadly she is not interested. I forget about the chocolate orange. That is, until I reach security. My rucksack trundles down the conveyor belt and is seized upon and ransacked. “It’s a chocolate orange!” He yells to his mate across the concourse. The scanner thought it was a real one. I am not arrested.

Wearily I join the five other people clustered around the luggage carousel, and soon spot my case with the little red ribbon. All alone I walk towards the double doors shining with light that say “Way Out”. I wonder light-headedly if this is what it is like to enter Heaven. Beyond the door are the beaming faces of friends and relatives waiting for their important ones.  And down the end, as far away as possible, is Hubby.  With a grin and an almost invisible tear in his eye.

We soar over Istanbul and Katmandu, travelling through time and space, finally swooping over Kuala Lumpa and descending to Singapore.  I only have 50 minutes between the plane touching down and the next one taking off, so my seating placement makes sense now. I am one of the first off, after Business and Premium and the family, who clamber off to the tuneless singing of “Once I caught a fish alive” and “London’s Burning”.  I have to do a concentrated hobble down much of the length of Changi Terminal 3 to find my connection. It is so far that by the time I reach the A gates I have forgotten which one I need.  A small Singaporean man in an orange high-viz sees my confusion and whips out his smart phone. “A10. Quick! Quick! They are boarding!”

Thank you and hobble swiftly on. No queue at security and I join the end of the boarding line just as it disappears inside the aircraft, escaping the embarrassing tannoy and the accusing glares of delayed travellers. The same seat, but instead of children there are three Germans in front. The largest one in front of me. I sigh as the chair jerks towards my nose.

The cabin crew are very different this time. Instead of floating on air, the head man is stressed as he passes down the aisle handing out packets of dried peas. Dinner follows. I have only just had scrambled eggs in Bechimel sauce for breakfast, but the promise of another plastic glass of wine and chicken pasta is too much to resist. Does any one have any idea what time of day it is anyway?

I browse the in-flight entertainment rather unenthusiastically. New Hollywood releases, upcoming Hollywood releases, Brad Pitt films, (yes he does have a tab to himself) and I settle on House of the Dragon. In my weary condition I can only manage one episode of Matt Smith orgies and smashed heads. I am also feeling a little concerned for the mental health of the elderly couple a row behind to my left. I know they can see my screen because I have a great view of Thor wielding his hammer one row in front and across.

 

The journey begins after Christmas. I climb aboard the National Express airport service and munch my way through the Christmas leftovers – 3 sausage rolls, 2 mince pies and a chocolate coated date. I save the half a chocolate orange for later. I am twitchy. I cannot not read or play with my phone. I watch the high whispy clouds against the blue winter sky. At Newmarket an angel appears. He spreads his mighty cloud wings and lifts his arms, (I have been watching too much of His Dark Materials). He stays for a long time and even as the clouds dissipate the cross of his outstretched arms remains. I stop worrying. I see him again as we drive from the airport towards Methven, his wings stretching above the patchwork of the Canterbury Plains. He does not stay for long. Job done.

At Heathrow I make it from the totally inadequate bus station to Terminal 2 bag check in. I join a very long queue behind an excited mixed race family holding a small infant with curly black hair. He squeals with joy as they pass him between them like a much coveted Christmas present. He is the only one enjoying the queue.

Then bang bang go the self service trays on the security conveyor belt. Stand there. Hands up. No! Not that much!

Finally to the calm of the high domed Departure Hall, where shops sell expensive bottles of water because they know everyone has binned theirs during the security checks. The silent sneaky cleaning robots glide across the open floor. Cool travellers perch next to counters eating sushi.

Last WhatApp messages. Check the inflight menu. Saunter to the gate and wait. The Singapore Air pilot and his crew swoosh past with their little black wheeled suitcases. The cabin crew ladies are dressed in ankle length patterned dresses, and are obviously chosen for their slim frames and small bottoms. A great asset when gliding effortlessly down the narrow aisles and dodging podgy passengers.

Finally we board, filing past the brown sofas of Business Class and the only-very-slightly-bigger-than-Economy seats in Premium. My aisle seat is directly behind the families. Great for getting your arm knocked off or for making a swift exit to the tiny toilets.   A mother and father are occupying the seats in front with three small children. They are a well oiled team. The cabin crew are helpful, and so are the Disney films. They exhibit exemplary parenting skills to the watching cabin, and make it to Singapore allowing their exhaustion to show only through small sideswipes at mummy’s or daddy’s packing skills.

The mother and daughter in the seats next to me ignore me so I ignore them. The window is black and the shades go down. When lifted in the morning there is only a white wing.

Dinner arrives in all its ingenious traysome deliciousness, along with a much needed plastic cup of wine. I decide to watch “Downton Abbey – a new era” which turns out to be a mistake. I stick with it until Maggie Smith’s improbable death scene. She utters a perfectly annunciated speech to the family who are gathered around her spotless bed in strict hierarchy, closes her eyes and stops breathing. People do not die like that. Especially elderly people.

Then it is lights out and we try our best to snore inconspicuously and not allow any inappropriate body noises to escape.

Here I am, sitting in the morning sun in a rented apartment in Methven, New Zealand. I am surrounded by the left-over bric a brac of someone who has a property to rent and is not bothered if the equipment is suitable. My table is overshadowed by a shiny vase with tall red plastic grass and orange plastic tulips. The table itself is an artwork of coffee cup rings and scratches. I am surrounded by wobbly drying racks and dodgy cutlery. The pictures are not offensive to look at, but are hung in odd positions and angles – never central or straight. Perhaps it is the zenith of creative Kiwi house dressing to hang two large prints on one side of the wall, and leave the other side completely bare? The cooking equipment is an eclectic collection of pans and spatulas and a small Pyrex jug. There is a large sign over the cooker informing residents that there is a sensitive fire alarm. This is manifested in red plastic shades on red light bulbs placed at handy intervals and intended for maximum terror. If you cause the fire siren to sound and the fire service swoops down to your door there is a hefty charge to pay. I am not planning to do much cooking. Hubby has done the only sensible things: he has bought a slow cooker and eats out whenever possible.

So how did a Suffolk gal arrive at this small sunny pockmarked table in Oceania?

In a tin of sardines, otherwise called an Airbus.