Altitude with Attitude

Situated in the Andes mountain range at an altitude of 3400m, the city of Cusco is not to be messed with. It is a truly city with altitude. To put that in perspective it is nearly three and a half times the height of Sca Fell Pike, England's highest hill, or to use a more common reference point, 66 times the height of Nelson's Column.

And you can certainly feel it. From the moment you disembark from the aeroplane doors, walk across the Tarmac and hit the first set of stairs, you can feel your heart pumping as it desperately tries to get what little oxygen there is into the blood stream. A little while longer and dehydration sets in, a background headache arrives followed by irritability and fatigue. Before anyone makes a sarcastic comment, I freely acknowledge that it didn't take being at altitude for some of those symptoms to appear!  The weirdest symptom I have experienced so far is waking during the night, gasping for air as if the oxygen has been sucked out of the room by a malevolent inn keeper.

The best way to deal with it is to drink plenty of water, take it easy for the first few days and let the body make the necessary adjustments. If it doesn't then  High Altitude Pulmonary Edema or High Altitude Cerebral Edema can develop. Neither of which are pleasant and can be fatal. Nice.

Luckily we have a few days before setting off on the four-day trek along the Inca Trail which eventually tops out at around 4200m above sea level. Yes even more Sca Fells and another dozen or so Nelson's!

After strolling around this stunning city and admiring the precision of the Inca engineering, we met back in the hotel for a team briefing. As well as representation from UK/NZ we will also be joined by Kiwis, Americans and Aussies. I had hoped that we would be the most pepared for the trip, having completed several multi-day hikes previously, but the Aussies seemed to know what they were talking about..... that was until one of them asked if they could take a hot water bottle! I can only assume that they would take it empty and have it filled every night but I am beginning to wonder. Apparently they were concerned that, with forecast night-time temperatures dropping to 8 degrees, it might be too cold. I make that 1-0 to the UK/NZ contingent.

Since the hottie revelation, we have been busy packing our bags and deciding which items we will carry and what to give to the porters. It is going to be quite a team; two guides, two cooks, fifteen porters and eleven.... well what would you call us? Clients sounds too business like but travellers sounds a bit Phileas Fogg. Either way, it 

is going to take a lot of people to get us from the start to the Inca ruins at Machu Picchu.

The forecast is not looking great, this is the rainy season after all, but it'll be a great experience nonetheless and worthy of a blog or too I'm sure when we get back - I'm pretty certain that there will be no internet reception on the trail. 

Well I'd better sign off and finish my packing as I've got to whittle down my undies just a couple of pairs and decide which of my least dirty t-shirts to take. Shouldn't be too hard but I'm already feeling sorry for the people who will share our return bus......

 

End of Part One

So that's it, we're leaving The Galápagos Islands and bound once again for Quito. The next stage is the Inca Trail Hike. But that is a few days away.

After seeing such fabulous animals from the first few steps on these amazing islands, it would've been very easy for the trip to reach an anti-climax. For example, how on earth do you top swimming with turtles, or gazing at Marine Iguanas? With giant tortoises, obviously.

We spent yesterday watching in awe as these wild animals went about their daily business, albeit at a glacial pace. They cover about one mile every day in their 25 mile trip from the coastal plains to the mountains. It truly is a marathon not a sprint for them. 

Weighing in at up to 320kg, it is no surprise that they aren't galavanting around. Not to mention that they live for nearly 150 years. As I gazed into the eyes of a younger one of these animals, a mere 30 years old, I wondered what it would experience in their lifetime. A humbling experience.

And that may have been that, except today we took a short break on the way to the airport and an owl flew to a nearby branch to check us out. Apparently it will have been on the hunt for food, but found a group of brightly dressed humans more interesting. For a while at least.

It has been a fantastic experience, in no small part because of our guide Jose De La Cruz. No question was too dumb and no problem too big. Add to that is wide repertoire of animal calls, mating dances and local knowledge. 

So after a (too) brief stop in Quito, we will be one the move once again to catch a 4:10am flight to Lima. Hardly worth going to bed really. Maybe I could spend the time sifting through the 400 or so photographs I have taken.....

 

"Are you looking at me?"

 

Jose demonstrates how a human would look with a 50kg shell.....

Christmas Eve on the Equator

I never thought I would write this, but this Christmas Eve blog comes from the Equator. Or to be more precise, the Galápagos Islands. Or to be even more precise, Isabela.

Of all of the Christmas Eves, this has the be the most unique. Forgetting that we spent the morning  climbing up a volcano, or the late afternoon drinking in a beach bar after walking along the sand looking at the basking Iguanas, it was still unique.

But why? Well because we got to experience how another culture celebrates the Christmas period. I had foolishly assumed that everybody celebrated the same way. Ok, I wasn't expecting Southern America to start boiling up Brussels at midday on Christmas Eve, ready for the festivities the next day but I least thought they would celebrate the same day.

Instead, Christmas Eve is the big day and it is a time to  spend with families. As we walked to the restaurant for diner, after drinking beer at a beach bar (oh wait, did I mention that already?) it was great to see people out in the street walking to family and neighbours houses with plates of food and join in the festivities. 

Although we had foolishly left our Santa hats at home, we did our best by sitting in a local restaurant and enjoying a meal of rice, pork, salad and baked potatoo. Not exactly roast turkey and stuffing but delicious nonetheless.

And what's weird, despite having been in the Southern Hemisphere for the last few Christmasses, this is the closest we have felt to Christmas since we left the UK. It's certainly not the weather, nor is it being with friends and family, so it must be the light. On the equator, every day is pretty much the same; there are no seasons to speak of, the temperature is pretty much the same, and the sunrise and sunset never changes. Sunrise is at 6am and the sunset is at 6pm. Day in, day out. 

And because of this relatively early curfew, Christmas lights are everywhere. And boy do they go to town. Not for them tasteful decorations, instead every house has a nativity scene. Outside and front and centre. Even more, why stop at just lights? How about some music and, if a space allows, a screen showing scene from and aquarium? Nice!

The downside is that tomorrow will be a normal working day. Well as normal as it gets when we will be spending the morning kayaking around the bay before jumping on a speedboat to go to the next island. 

Yes I realise that it is ridiculous but is it too much to ask for Brussel Sprouts for lunch?

 

Swimming with Sharks

I was in two minds over the title of this blog entry. My original title was going to be 'Boobie Watching' but I was concerned that it would be too smutty and might attract the wrong sort of reader. It would be great for my site traffic though! In the end I went for the less titular title, although strictly speaking it is not very accurate as there was only one shark, and not a very big one at that. But it still counts in my book.

Yesterday we were taken from the dock at San Cristobel and travelled for two hours to Kicker Rock. On the way we stopped to watch a Boobie colony - stop your laughing at the back and pay attention - and marvelled at these blue-footed birds. Unfortunately we didn't get to see the Boobie dance - stop it - but it was great to finally see thee birds in the flesh after seeing them on documentaries for years.

After this brief stop, it was off to Kicker Rock. Jumping off backwards into the deep ocean as waves crash against the rocks is not something you do every day, thank God, but necessary if you want to exit the boat with any sort of dignity. Wearing flippers takes some practice and on land, or in a boat, they are somewhat cumbersome. Once on the water, however, they become extremely useful.

I have never swam in such deep water - no chance of touching the bottom here - but it makes for an exhilarating trip. The sheer amount of sea life on display was breathtaking as fish and over sea animals emerged from the depths to feed on the algae that was attached to the rocks. Even sharks! Or rather a shark, joined in the feast.

Not to be outdone, sea lions joined in, giving me the fright of my life as it swam past me. I'm no biologist but I'm sure that was a smirk on its face! 

For some, being in the ocean was a respite from the boat as the bobbing motion whilst we had gotten ready was too much for them, or more accurately their stomachs. That didn't stop some people emptying the contents as we swam around the rock, if you know what I mean. Still, I guess the additional food in the water may have helped attract more wildlife!

Today we transfer four hours by speed boat to Isabella, another Galapogean island with a whole different set of animals to encounter. Can't wait. But for now, Boobies and Sharks will do for me.....

 

Top of the World

If there isn't an unwritten rule about travelling then there ought to be. This is important so maybe someone should just write it down. I appreciate that that would make it a written rule, but hey, some things just need to be formalised.

You see, the thing is, that we have recently travelled from New Zealand to Ecuador and by my reckoning we have spent longer wandering around airports that we have actually spent in the air. Surely that can't be right? I know this is the price of travelling but if I see one more Duty Free shop or someone promising the best deal on the iPhone6 I'm going to pop. Besides, it's simply not possible. They can't all be the best deal. And while we're on the subject of airports, can somebody please get some common rules on when you can and can't take water on board. It's not big and it's not clever to confiscate water in the boarding queue. And neither does it look cool swilling down a two litre bottle of carbonated water. And it certainly doesn't feel good an hour or so later.

Anyway, I've digressed but needed to get that off my chest and am feeling much better now.

So we have finally arrived in Quito, just ten calendar hours after leaving home. The actually tally is somewhere nearer 28 hours. I never will get used to crossing the international date line, or as us travellers prefer to call it, the twilight zone. The zone where days miraculously disappear and reappear.

Because if the aforementioned time spent in airports, we arrived just as the sun was about to come up. The delights of Quito awaited, or at least they would once we'd had a shower and some sleep. It's ironic that after spending all that time sat around doing nothing the first thing one wants to do is have rest. But it was either rest or risk exploding at a random stranger and create an international situation.

Thankfully check-in was quick and within minutes we were showered and slumped on the bed. It was a most welcome and much needed rest and we slept solidly until noon. Time to explore.

Stepping out of the cool and calm of the hotel into the middle of a bustling Quito day felt like we'd stepped into the middle of a movie scene and a total contrast to our arrival in the small hours of the morning. Where did all these people come from? A Quito day was in full swing; cars were travelling in all directions, shop owners hustled in an attempt to sell their wares, conversations excitedly unfolded on street corners and the smell of sweet food hung in the mountain air.

Ahh, the mountain air. It was hard to believe that Quito was over 2,800m above sea level. Nearly 3km higher that Auckland. Luckily there were two reminders. First, there was the fact that just walking around became difficult and any incline had us gasping for air. Secondly, there was the back drop. Quito is surrounded by mountain peaks. Just a glance up the street confirmed the mountainous nature of this fascinating town. Despite it being a sunny day,, clouds spilled off the mountain tops and down the slopes into Quito. It was like nothing I'd seen before: Well not in a city anyway. Usually at this altitude we'd be dressed in hiking gear and carrying a rucksack, not wandering around busy street, wearing sandals and looking for a place to buy lunch.

Thankfully we shuffled enough to find a local restaurant and get some much needed lunch. Or was that breakfast? It didn't really matter because it was delicious... and cheap. Amazingly cheap.

We just had time for a quick visit to a supermarket to buy some essentials (water and biscuits) before heading back to the calm of the hotel. What a journey, and this was only the first day. Later we would meet our tour guide and the rest of our fellow travellers. 

If the rest of the trip was as rewarding as these first few hours then it would've been worth it, unwritten rule or not.

 

Uncomfort Zone

It may be news to some people, but I consider myself to be a fairly adventurous chap. I do. Even if you put aside the fact that I upped sticks and went to live on the other side of the globe, I still have plenty of examples of derring do.

For example, I'm not afraid to try new things on a menu and I even once changed the standard toppings on a pizza. It was a risk but it worked out well.

Then there was the time that I left the house without actually checking that I had closed all of the windows and turned off the gas. Living in the edge that one.

Yes, if ever a challenge presents itself, I'm usually first in the queue to sign up and tackle it straight on. As long as success is guaranteed of course. And I have someone with me in case things get a bit sticky.

The exception to that rule is holidays. I like a nice adventurous holiday as much as the next person as long as there is no unpredictable danger. Canoing down a river for three days? Count me in. Hiking in the alps? Sure thing. Mountaineering in the Scottish mountains in winter? Where do I sign. Adventurous stuff, I'm sure you'll agree, but the risks as easy to identify and deal with. 

With all of this experience you may be a little surprised to hear that I am more than a bit worried about our choice of destination for the Christmas holidays this year. In a couple of hours we will be heading off to South America. Let me repeat that. South. America. Yup, in a little over 11 hours we will touch down in Chile and then transfer to a flight to take us to Ecuador. For a Northern European, this is so far out of my comfort zone that no amount of blankets and alcohol is going to get me back to a safe place.l, mentally speaking that is. I could only been less comfortable if I'd decide to stick forks in my thighs for the duration of the trip. 

I blame TV. For a kid from Northern Europe growing up in the 70s, the main source of knowledge about the big world was beamed into a little box in the corner of the room. And as any telly addict will tell you, the box never lied and everything was taken at face value. So it is no surprise that my knowledge of South America is somewhat limited and more than a bit skewed.

When I think about that continent I can't help but get it mixed up with the portrayal of characters from cop shows and bad B-movies. They were never friendly, usually untrustworthy and the source of the malaise of the main character who was, of course, morally upstanding and the righter of wrongs. Or am I thinking about Mexico? My geography is a bit sketchy.

The only other image I have when thinking about our current destination is of course football. Or soccer if you prefer. And boy do they like their soccer in South America. Again, after the hand of Maradona especially, they're not to be trusted and certainly don't play football with a straight bat. Or maybe it's because they are much better than us? 

Yes I totally realise that this somewhat blinkered view makes me ever so slightly rascist. It can't be helped. Like I say, I blame television. But at least I recognise it and surely that is the first step to redemption? If I get one thing out of this trip, other than to see some real life blue-footed boobies, is the realignment of my prejudices then it will have been a success. And one worth making.

Right, enough of this banter, check-in is open. Blue-footed boobies here I come.......

 

And it's Goodbye from Him....

This is becoming a habit, if two times can indeed count as a habit. Today is my last day with my current employer and once again, as with my previous departure from my employer, I am leaving and pretty much my jumping on a jet plane to be whisked off to some exotic location. 

I am not sure what is making me more apprehensive; the thought of a trans-pacific flight to South America or having to say cheerio to friends and colleagues. Those who witnessed my last workplace departure will surely opt for the latter of the two. I won’t elaborate further, but I’ll just say that there are some properties in Darlington that are still only just getting over the flood damage!

If that was’t bad enough, I am also repeating mistakes at the receiving end, if you know what I mean. 

I started my last job in the UK with a broken wrist, having crashed off my mountain bike in spectacular fashion a month earlier and, after several days in hospital, turned up at my new employer with my writing hand in plaster. I still have the scars to prove it, and to this day I am not convinced that any of the contracts I signed in that first month were legally binding. 

When I started my role in New Zealand, I had arrived into the country only two days earlier and was severely jet lagged for the entire first week. All of those important introductions we done through a haze of disorientation and confusion. Admittedly some would say that it never really wore off and to this day I am still difficult to understand. It was a whirlwind introduction to working life. In that first week we had opened bank accounts, applied for emergency tax codes, moved into our temporary apartment and discovered that semi-skimmed milk was actually called ‘trim’.

So this time, when I arrive at my new employer after the Christmas break, I will have just returned from a ten day tour of the Galapagos Islands and a four day trek on the Inca Trail in Peru. Four days hiking at a serious altitude in what could be challenging conditions, followed by a gruelling set of flights back to New Zealand. It wasn’t going to be too bad, or at least I thought, as I had a couple of days at home. I have only just realised that I will cross the International Date Line on the way back and so the two days of quality recuperation I 'had' has effectively been halved. Doh! Still I'm sure my new employer won't mind me grabbing a couple of nana naps in that first week.

I was hoping to just slope off this afternoon, say goodbye to a couple of people and then find a quite spot in a pub to have a drink or two. Maybe even a French Exit (look it up). But no, I received an invite to my own farewell afternoon tea just a few days ago. To decline would’ve been rude under those circumstances, although I do suspect that if they’d have a better time without some bloke getting all emotional like a drunken mate at a stag do.

There are two things working in my favour today. The first is that it is getting toward the summer holidays and a lot of people will have other commitments. The second is that I am pre-occupied with the thought of going to Latin America in a few days time. My energies, for what they’re worth, are elsewhere. 

I have had a great time at my current-but-not-for-much-longer place of work and have fond memories of taking my first steps working in a foreign country. First, there was the late night telephone interviews where I tried to project an air of professionalism whilst wearing pyjamas and sound enthusiastic despite it being well past my bedtime. In some cases it was after 9pm! 

And along the way I have met some great people and picked up some good friends who I hope will continue with me on my journey in New Zealand and beyond. It’s not as if this is goodbye either. My partner still works for the employer so I will be her plus-one at the regular social events and probably turn up more times than a bad penny. Not that anyone would dare say anything - they are far too nice and in my new role I have effectively become a client. 

But despite having met some great people, and spending the last two years working alongside my partner, it's time to go. I won't go into details but let's just say that if I were a band member then I'd be saying it was due to musical differences. I'm saying no more, but if you care to buy me a drink in the Lumsden later this evening I may be persuaded. You won’t be able to miss me, I’ll be the one sat in the corner in a pool of water!

In These Shoes?

It seems odd, even after all this time, that I should be writing a blog about shoes. It's hardly my thing. Or at least I didn't think it was. No, you were much more likely to hear me waxing lyrical about Apple computers or the latest album by Teenage Fanclub than you are about an item of clothing.

Until very recently I considered shoes to be purely functional items. To be worn to protect feet from the elements, dirt and stubbed toes. Even now, after living in New Zealand for over two years and witnessing bare feet in all manner of places, I still wince at the thought of standing in something I shouldn't.

It has to be said that if all places to develop an addiction to footwear, New Zealand is the least likely place to do it. Not only are the prices hideously expensive, but the choice is somewhat limited. Or it is to my untrained eye. It's not that I haven't  tried to buy shoes since we arrived - I have bought some sandals and countless pairs of running shoes - but these are hardly high fashion. After several disappointing attempts, I have been left calculating whether I could make my current pair, yes singular, last until our next trip to Europe. Or to put it more simply, I am simply not a shoe buyer.

That was until I discovered that I could import my own. And since then, there's been no stopping me. Before I go any further, I must stress that I'm hardly in Imelda Marcos territory here, and most women would probably scoff at my shoe collection but this is a big thing for me.

Until very recently, I considered that if you had a pair of shoes that fit a particular function, then you had enough. After all, having more than one pair introduced choice, and choice was a complication I could do without thank you very much. The only exception to this was running shoes but only because it was scientifically proven that you needed to rotate between at least two pairs to make them last longer. And even then I had to read several articles and discussions to make absolutely sure it was necessary.

But here I now am, after a few internet shopping 'trips', the proud owner of not one or two but three pairs of casual shoes. I know, three. It's amazing and what a collection. Three pairs that serve the same function. What extravagance! And I've found the experience of having choice liberating and far from the burden that I thought it would be. Well up to a point at least.

Okay, so technically they are the same shoe just in different colours, but to me that is a huge step forward, if you pardon the pun. Besides, once you know a particular model of shoe fits, why risk anything else? Yes, I'll admit I've got some way to go but for me this is a big thing. It's the first time I have bought a second pair of shoes whilst the others are still relatively new, out of choice rather than necessity. And then a third? Well, wow, look at me go.

The latest addition to my collection (Scarpa Mojito Fresh in case you were wondering) are in a rather stunning green with pink laces. And just wearing them makes me smile. What a fun piece of footwear and the fact that nearly everyone has commented on them, mostly in a positive fashion, is almost worth the effort to import them.

It wouldn't be a stretch to call me, after three purchases, an importer of fashionable European footwear. Although I was getting a bit concerned that I would be classed as such and hit with a large tax bill. To reduce the risk, I took the precaution of having them shipped to different addresses, a suitable date apart and to different recipients.

But I'm done - three pairs of casual shoes is enough, especially when they are essentially the same shoe but in different colours. Besides, it's getting hard to decide which pair to wear. Do I go for the muted navy pair with red laces, the funky purple or the vibrant green with pink laces? Hhhhmmm. Nope, this is getting far to complicated so three is enough.

Mind, the orange pair with blue laces would look pretty cool.....

Permanent Membership

I can't remember exactly, but it was either Karl or his brother Groucho who said "I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member." It's easy to get those two Marx brothers mixed up.

So with those wise words ringing in my ears, I'm pleased to announce that I gave been granted permanent residency in New Zealand. Yes me, a scruffy kid from a Hartlepool housing estate. How did that happen? 

Actually it all seems far too simple. After just two short years, and a handful of months, I was eligible to apply for residence. So I did. I filled in a couple of forms, attached a couple of documents and payment and that was that. Just a matter of waiting a month or so and there it was. Permanent Residency. Or to put it more simply, I'm allowed to live here indefinitely and come and go as I please. Like a resident really.

It does help that I don't have a criminal background (other than the occasional theft of beer mats from pubs) and happen to have a skill that is in short supply. For once, a civil engineering degree is something worth having. Granted, it won't help you pick up women or get you prime tables in swanky restaurants, but it will allow you to work in far flung places such as this.  

After the initial surprise had passed, I examined the contents of the package for some more instructions. But that's all there was. Just my British passport with a visa certificate stuck inside and letter. No instructions, welcome book or informative pamphlet on living in New Zealand. I'm not sure what I was expecting but it all seemed to be a little bit of an anti-climax.  Don't get me wrong, I wasn't expecting a fanfare or invitation to the Prime Minister's house for a gin and tonic, even if he is nearly a neighbour, but something would've been nice. Maybe I'm being unreasonable - I know there are those who would die to have such a great opportunity. Quite literally in some cases.

But, there's always a but, there are a couple of limitations. And whether these are a deal breaker will depend upon your ambitions. In a nutshell, here they are;

1. Firstly, I'm not allowed to hold public office. Which is a shame because, with the elections coming up next year I thought I'd give John Key a run for his money. No matter. I'll have to find something else to occupy my spare time. But I can now vote so I guess I can still influence the election in a some small way.  
2. Then there is the problem of sport. No, it's not that it is compulsory to attend All Blacks games but that I can't represent New Zealand at international sporting events. Whilst All Blacks attendance might have given me pause for thought, I can't see my 5,000m time improving that much.  
3. Finally, I don't have the right to work in Australia without first obtaining another work permit. Given that there are all manner of creatures over there that want to do you harm, and I don't  just mean the inhabitants of Adelaide, I can live with this restriction.  

Compare these few limitations against being able to vote, draw a pension, work indefinitely and get access to New Zealand's benefits system (not that I am planning to become unemployment any time soon) it's easy to see that it's a pretty sweet deal.

So what next? Well I could hang on and apply for citizenship. As far as I can tell, the only difference would be that I could get a cool black New Zealand passport. Tempting, but I'm happy with the burgundy European one that I currently have. Or at least I was. Now, when asked to present my passport, I feel like I have to apologise profusely and proclaim loudly "it wasn't me!" It used to be just the picture inside the document that was embarrassing, now it's the whole bloody thing! It could be worse, at least I'm not American.  

No that's it for me and I'm overjoyed with it. And when it comes down to it,  the biggest advantage to being given this status is that I finally feel less like an outsider. Belong perhaps?    

Right, well I'm off. There's Sauvignon Blanc to be drunk and a Barbie to be lit. Those lamb chops won't cook themselves will they! What? Well I have to make more of an effort now don't I!

A Marathon not a Sprint

I'm sure there are those who consider a Marathon, that 42.2km test of fitness, stamina and maybe stupidity, to be just another run. No different to jogging to the shops for the paper. But to the rest of us lesser mortals, simply getting to the start line is a challenge in itself.

As I lined up at Milbrook Resort, on the outskirts of the little village of Arrowtown, I glanced across at my fellow competitors. The battle scars from three months of gruelling training were on display. I swear that some people were more strapping than person. For them, just lining up was a real achievement and at that very moment, before the events of the next four hours unfolded, they could proudly call themselves Marathoners. Or should that be Full Marathoners?

You see it's important to make that distinction in New Zealand. On more that one occasion I've been proudly informed by a fellow runner that they are doing the marathon this weekend, only to find out later that they are competing in the 10k. Even yesterday, on the bus to the start of the race I heard someone proudly boast that this was their fifth marathon. "Wow!" their partner in conversation exclaimed, "That's impressive". "Well I've done five marathons but this is my first full marathon." That is not to take away the achievement of completing a half marathon, that is a test in itself and something to be really proud about, but it's not a full marathon.

A Full Marathon, or to give it its proper title A Marathon, is a totally different prospect and not one to be taken lightly, for us non-super-humans anyway. To put it into context, in the course of training for a Marathon you will match or exceed the distance of a Half Marathon no less than ten times. In a typical training programme anyway. Everyone is an expert when it comes to training programmes and they all claim to be the best, tried and tested etc etc. There is no right answer, pick one and stick to it. Although, having said that, I'm not sure the guy next to me in the starting pen had chosen wisely. He was a bit.... well let's say he was not a thin chap but when asked how had is training gone he replied enthusiastically "Pretty good, although this is only my second not on a treadmill". Well at least he'll be fresh!

Yes, just getting to the start line is an achievement as anything can happen in the months, weeks and days leading up to the start. Mine, by way of an example, was far from ideal. I knew that this was going to be the case when, on my first official day of training, I was mowed down by a wayward cyclist, hurting my groin in the process. It all happened so quickly that I didn't even have time to respond wittily "Get off the footpath you f*cking stupid idiot".

Add to that, twisted ankles, several colds, unseasonally crappy weather and a bit of gastro enteritis and the whole thing has been a bit of an ordeal. And that is the real problem. Running used to be a pleasure but when you have to get out there and pound the pavement, especially when the runs are getting towards the 30km mark, it becomes a chore. A worry almost. Rather than be the stress relief it used to be, it becomes a source of anxiety in itself. Am I feeling as good as I should? Am I running fast enough? Can I afford to miss this session? Is that a niggle in my ankle? And so on and so forth. It's a blessing that I was not short of fantastic places to run and had some good friends to keep me company on parts of my long runs.

It almost all came to an end with just two weeks to go when a previous injury to my ankle decided to make a return. Not wanting to acknowledge this I took the most sensible option and ignored the growing pain in my right foot. Well I had another didn't I? Shovelling down ibuprofen like they were Smarties, I set off for my final short run. Blam! The dull pain became a sharp needle point and I couldn't finish the run. The next day my ankle had ballooned in size and even walking was painful. Time to see the Physio. Well, actually the time to see the Physio was several weeks ago but who's counting. Incidentally, that's another thing that they don't tell you. You and your physio will become almost inseparable. At least I was, and I was there so often that I considered asking for loyalty discount on more than one occasion.  

"Hmmm," he mused, "well I can get you to the start line, but the rest is up to you". And so two weeks of intensive physiotherapy, icing and rest ensued. I didn't dare tell him that I had entered a Half Marathon race the week after the Marathon. But he was good to his word and he got me to the starting line where I joined the aforementioned strapped casualties of the Marathon masses. It was now up to me.

I had a race plan and I doggedly stuck to it. During the early stages I could have gone faster but held back, conscious that there was another 32km to go. And with stunning mountain scenery all around what was the rush? I passed the halfway point, one of the psychological hurdles, just a minute behind my planned time but I was not feeling as good as I would've liked, or indeed expected. The sun was out and the headwind on certain sections was taking its toll. By the 30km point I was further adrift, only by ten minutes, but it was enough for me to realise that my chance of getting home in under the magic four hour mark was slipping away. Worse than that, I was beginning to really struggle.

With 8km still to run, I entered the final section and started my run alongside the lake. I had run this track before and knew it well - and knew that I could cover it in the time needed for me to still reach my goal. Five minute kilometres would not normally be an issue but on the back of having already run 34km I knew I was going to have a problem. The pain was getting worse and I was starting to feel really fatigued. I bashed out another couple of kilometres and soon I passed the 5km to go banner. "5k, is that all?" I thought to myself "That's only three laps around Western Springs lake. No problem, you've got this!". But I didn't. No amount of mental encouragement was going to banish the agonising pain in my legs. If I was going to finish this race and live to run another day I was going to have to commit the cardinal sin and walk. For a little bit at least. So for the next four kilometres I ran and walked in a desperate attempt to knock some of the distance off. I'd forgotten just how much Marathon running hurts.

Soon, but not soon enough, the 1km to go marker was in view and the cheers of the welcoming Queenstown crowd could be heard. "You can't walk through the crowd," I thought to myself, "come one, one final push to the end!". And so, with every aching muscle telling me to stop, I ran the last kilometre through the streets of Queenstown, up the last hill and into the finishing straight. Tears had already started to trickle down my face as I crossed the finish line in a respectable 4hrs 18min 30sec and by the time I was hugged by Sarah the trickle turned to sobs. Sobs of relief, pain, joy and pride in what I had accomplished. Happy to have finished the race but overjoyed that the Marathon ordeal was over.  No more getting up a stupid o'clock on a Sunday morning to get a long run done. No more analysing every kilometre ran. No more club runs because they didn't fit the training programme. No more anxiety over having missed a training session because of one reason or another. And no more asking for understanding from your partner because either your too miserable or too tired to think about anything else.

Yes, I thought that I would've finished quicker and getting under four hours would've been a dream come true. But it's a tough course, stupidly beautiful but stupidly hilly with a huge 'wall' at 30km and it was hot and windy. I also know that I didn't leave anything out there and was physically and emotionally drained when I crossed the line. In the end, I gave it everything and that is all that matters. 

So why, you might ask, am I telling you all this? Perhaps in case there is anyone out there who has completing a Marathon on their bucket list and needs to know what they are letting themselves in for. But mainly its for me, or rather my future self. This is definitely my last Marathon. I've done one in the northern hemisphere and now one on the southern side of the planet. And that's enough, for me at least. Let's call this an insurance policy. There will be times, possibly a year or so from now; when the pain has subsided and I can approach a flight of stairs without grimacing at the thought of the pain to come, when the conversation will inevitably turn to Marathons. Temptation will surely raise its ugly head and the prospect of completing another might sound like a fun way to spend the weekend. I just hope that I recall that I have written this and take the time to seek it out. Otherwise it'll be back to the early morning sessions and having a physio on my speed dial.

Nope, I'm done with Marathons. Never again, and yes this time I mean it. And besides, there's always triathlons.....

Shaken not Stirred

There really is no need to actually read the news these days. Not in depth anyway. Now all one has to do to remain in touch is simply to simply scan the messages that are automatically sent, pushed I believe they call it, conveniently to your handheld device or tablet. A few seconds and you're done. Up-to-date. Switched on.

But there is a problem. Relying on these messages alone, as is so easily to do, you can quickly get an idea of what's happened without actually bothering to find out what's really going on. But it's so gripping, addictive almost, as anyone who has felt the excitement of 'watching' a football match on the BBC's text updates will attest. And it's without fail the first thing I do in the morning; wake up, hold out an outstretched arm, pick up my phone and glance at the screen. What's happened in the rest of the world whilst I've been happily slumbering? What have I missed?

I don't know why I do it really. Looking back over the events of the past year it's been a grim way to wake up. Just off the top of my head; Bowie, Prince, Alan Rickman, Leonard Cohen and only just recently Robert Vaughan. Add to that, shootings, acts of terrorism, random violence and natural and unnatural disasters. I must stop doing this - it's no wonder I arrive in work in a foul mood. In fact it's only the calamities that were Brexit and the US election that had the decency to unfold during waking hours. At least then I only returned home in a foul mood, and there was the benefit of several bars between my desk and front door to knock off the edge....

It's not unusual, when glancing bleary-eyed at the phone's screen in the early morning, to be greeted with a message informing me that there's been an earthquake somewhere in New Zealand. It is, after all, not nicknamed the Shaky Isles for nothing. In fact it’s so common place, that I've gotten to the point where I don't even comment on it. Now I just acknowledge it and move on to something else. I accept that for those in more stable countries, geologically speaking anyway, that this nonchalant approach to seismic events might seem a little careless. Cavalier even. And maybe it is. I also accept that even the slightest New Zealand tremor would far surpass anything felt in the British Isles, result in trains being cancelled and questions being asked in the Houses of Parliament. Not to mention stiff letters being written to the editor of The Telegraph asking how can this sort of thing be allowed to happen.

It's just part of nearly-everyday life in this fascinating country. 

But this morning’s message was different. Something was seriously up. Not only were there multiple messages, one of them was from The Guardian. This one was so significant that the UK press had picked up the story. A quick tap of the screen confirmed that it was indeed a big one, 7.5 on the Richter Scale. The messages were soon followed by others confirming that after-shocks were continuing, some as large as 6.3.

At around 1am this morning a large seismic event had occurred in the South Island of New Zealand, around Kaikoura. It was so large that it was felt in the North Island as far away as Auckland. Not to make light of it, but Auckland? Really? Now I consider myself to be a light sleeper and I have to say that I did’t feel a thing. Not a murmur. Maybe some are just more sensitive than me or maybe hadn't had a bottle of wine a few hours ago. Either way, this was not your usual rumble and it had done some serious damage.

News was slowly trickling in to Radio NZ. Reports of damage to roads, rail lines, buildings, agricultural land soon made it abundantly clear this was a large shock. Wellington city centre had been evacuated for safety grounds whilst the buildings were inspected, roads and schools were closed and a state of emergency declared. This was serious.

In some ways it was a relief that it had happened during the early hours of the morning. If it had hit during the day, a time when people are travelling to work or tourists are heading along the coastal road, then we would surely be looking at more than two people dead. Yes it could've been a lot worse.

It has served as a reminder what a contradictory place New Zealand can be. In the most part, beautiful, serene and laid back but unpredictable and without a moment's notice can bare it's teeth and try to tear itself apart at the seams. I'm thankful that as I am writing this the sun has set and the surrounding land plunged into darkness. The lights of Auckland look beautiful but I know that just across the harbour is a relatively recent reminder of the power of nature. Rangitoto is just one of 53 volcanoes in the currently dormant Auckland volcano field. Dormant but not extinct. And overdue, in geological terms anyway. Some time in the next hundred to couple of thousand years. A blink of an eye so to speak.

If think from now on, I'll leave looking at my phone screen until I have had at least my first sip of coffee. I'll be much better equiped to handle bad news. It's either that, or ignore the news and live in blissful ignorance. Actually, on reflection as I stare out into the darkness of the Hauraki Gulf maybe that isn't such a bad idea after all.....

"I think I've found the problem!"

Definitely worse than leaves on the track

"We're going to need a bigger shovel"

Large furnished studio apartment available to rent*

Available immediately is this fantastically spacious studio apartment. 

If location is your thing then this place has it all! Situated in the heart of the bohemian suburb of Parnell means that there are bars, restaurants, boutique shops and beautiful parks right on your door step. And, being at the city side of the suburb, it is a gentle twenty minute stroll into the CBD giving quick and easy access to the ferry terminal and train station.

Convenience doesn’t stop there. This is a studio style accommodation, everything is within easy reach. It is a very practical shape, a rectangle, so it makes arranging the layout a breeze. 

Speaking of breeze, there is a large widescreen entrance with electrical control that gives convenient access to the street. There is also a side entrance that opens out onto a garden patio, complete with jacuzzi. Storage is also provided with plenty of shelving for storing those ornaments and nic-nacs that give any home a personal touch. 

A plumbed in washing machine is included in the rent as well as ready-to-use furnishings such as bed, dining table, two free standing wardrobes, fridge freezer and sofa. The concrete floor and bare walls give this space a real urban loft feel that wouldn’t be out of place in downtown New York. We do suggest, however, that whoever is lucky enough to call this place home, buys a nice pair of slippers to keep out the chill on cool evenings.

Off street parking is also available, a must in a busy suburb such as this, but does need to be arranged carefully so as not to inhibit access to the property or spoil the views.

Tempted? You should be. But they say seeing is believing so early viewing of this apartment is a must......

*okay, we'll come clean. This isn't actually a studio apartment - it's our garage. And whilst I'm feeling in a sharing mood, not all of the furniture is ours, we just happen to be storing it for a friend. Well except the wardrobe and fridge freezer - they're ours. Oh, and the car.

Back to the Scene of the Crime

Like most criminals, the temptation to return to the scenes of a heinous deed was just too tempting. Not that it was a conscious decision mind you. What on earth am I taking about? Nonsense as usual but let me explain.  

When we were looking, a few months ago now, for somewhere to go for the Labour Day weekend (or Bank Holiday weekend if you prefer) we had a few criteria against which any potential destination would be measured.

Firstly, it had to be reasonably reachable for a weekend. Quite obvious, but it did rule out a trip to Cape Reinga in the north or East Cape to the errrr….. well East. This destination, whilst a large chunk of the distance could be covered by air, was just too far flung to reasonably get there and back in a weekend. We could, just about, have got to Sydney but we’d recently been there and the thought of international travel for a quick getaway didn’t appeal. And there is also the next criteria….

…it had to be relaxing. A weekend in the busy city of Sydney would certainly not be relaxing and we’d return to work more tired than we were when we left, especially when factoring the two hour time difference. Nope, Sydney was out. So somewhere relaxing would have to be in New Zealand and fit the final criteria….

With a marathon fast approaching, or at least it would be by the time this particular weekend rolled around, wherever we ended up had to have somewhere where a reasonable length run could be accommodated. With four weeks to go, this would need to be around 30km. And preferably off-road to mimic the marathon route that I would be running.

There really was only one place that we knew fit the three criteria. Abel Tasman National Park is an hour flight then short drive from Auckland, is definitely a relaxing place and has a walking track that is 60km long. The added bonus is that there are water taxis that shuttle people up and down the coast to different points on the track. Marahau is the closest settlement to the park, being only 1km outside the entrance, so having decided upon the location, the accommodation was simple. It had to be Ocean View Chalets. We’d been before, knew they were ideally situated and very comfortable.

As we drove up the gravel track to the chalets, nestled in the bush on the side of a hill overlooking the sea, we got a pang of familiarity. This doubled when we were shown to our accommodation for the next few days. It was exactly the same chalet we’d stayed in on our holiday to New Zealand for Christmas 2014. We dispensed with the tour of the property and quickly settled down for the afternoon.

But why the scene of the crime? Well it was here, back in December 2014, when we…well ok I…. first mooted the possibility of us coming to New Zealand to live. I remember it distinctly - we were walking back from a trip into the National Park and heading up the gravel driveway when I first suggested the possibility. Then, after a glass of wine or two, I did a little bit of research into the ins and outs and discovered that our profession was on the long term skills shortage list. Engineering was in short supply so it wouldn’t be a problem. And there it was left whilst we enjoyed the rest of our holiday.

Maybe it was the lovely warm summer sun or the sheer heart stopping beauty of this place, but having had those initial thoughts I didn’t think that we would, just seven short months later, be packing the contents of our house into a container and shipping it off half way around the world. I certainly didn’t think that I would be sat in the same chair, coffee in hand, looking out to sea and writing a blog about life in New Zealand. What an adventure!

Well that’s enough reminiscing for one morning. The marathon won’t run itself, mores the pity, so I’ve got a 30k run to do. Now where was that number for the water taxi….

 

A Fantastic Day!

I've always resented having to work on my birthday. I did, for a while at least, try and avoid working at all by taking the day off (hey! I heard that!) but after a while I came to realise that taking a day off in October was not great timing, weather wise at least, and I was better off saving it for more favourable conditions.

That changed when we moved to New Zealand - my Autumnal birthday magically swapping for a Springtime celebration. In some ways, that made it worse. This year it looked like the sun shining bit was going to be a stretch - we've had a really wet start to Spring this year - but there's not a cloud in the sky.

So far, by luck of the calendar, my birthdays have fallen on a weekend but that was only going to last short while.  My first birthday in NZ was a Saturday, and we spent the day on Waiheke Island sampling the local wines from several vineyards whilst soaking up the early sunshine. Last year it was a Sunday and we spent the day sipping a beer or two on the quayside whilst trying to avoid getting too sunburnt. A trend was definitely emerging.

But now I am faced with the prospect of working on my birthday AND the sun is shining......

....well maybe working is a bit misleading. Yes, I am getting paid and technically I am in work, but I am about to jump on my bike and cycle around some of Auckland's newly built cycle paths. I suppose getting paid to cycle in the sunshine not only makes me very fortunate but it's also the closest I will come to being a professional cyclist. But without the hassle of having to shave my legs.

When it was suggested to me, without solicitation I must add, I was initially apprehensive. Could I really afford the time when I knew I had numerous reports to complete? Wouldn't it be better is a more junior team member went in my place? And then there was the problem of which bike to take. The client team would be on their e-bikes. Should I take my slow but sturdy mountain bike or my quick but less robust road bike? And then there was the issue of what to wear. A dress shirt and trousers would be appropriate for a client meeting but not great for spending a morning in the saddle. Problems, problems. It would better if I just politely declined. What on earth was I thinking?

It does give me a bit of a dilemma though. How on earth can I top this? Hhmmm, next year my birthday will be on a Wednesday.... Maybe I can convince my employer that what he really needs is for someone to check out the running routes through the city? Maybe a good beach inspection is needed? Or perhaps we really need someone to make an assessment of the transport links to the local bars? Actually, don't they have a lot of cycle paths in Belgium? I hear Bruges is lovely at this time of year.....




Sitting Ducks

A colleague of mine once compared living in Auckland to being on an air craft carrier. Not, I hasten to add, because we are all armed and ready to kick-off at anyone who looks at us sideways, but because we are in the middle of the ocean and surrounded by nothing much but water.

And not just any water either. The South Pacific is a steaming, fizzing cauldron of currents which give rise to torrential rain, wind and occasionally very impressive, but equally frightening, tropical cyclones. 

And all New Zealand, can do is sit and watch and wonder if the swirling mass of low pressure is coming our way. I'd imagine that it's a bit like witnessing Godzilla arrive at the city boundary and watch, helplessly, as it begins its slow but certain stomp towards you. Not that I have ever witnessed a Godzilla of course. 

On the plus side, it makes weather forecasting, in the short to medium term at least, a breeze. Pardon the pun. Want to know what the weather will be doing today? No problem, just look at the rainfall radar and see what's coming. Pretty much whatever is predicted to come this way will inevitably turn up. A bit like a drunk mate who turns up at every party - no one invited him but everyone knew he was coming. Sooner or later. Auckland does have the Waitakere Ranges to shield it from the worst of the rain, but when it comes in such volume it makes little difference. They are hardly the Pennines. 

The flip side of this, of course, is that once settled weather turns up there is very little to disrupt that pattern. The result is, thankfully, long periods of unbroken sunshine and warm weather. But at the moment....well the South Pacific is very angry. Mostly at Australia which is having a torrid time, but it has been continuously damp here in Auckland for some time. How damp? Well last night Auckland had 85mm of rainfall. Pretty soggy I can tell you.

At least it's warm. With temperatures hanging around 15 degrees it makes walking in the rain almost a pleasure. Yes, you will still get wet but not cold, and it saves on having to get a shower in the morning. It's exactly this sort of weather that has resulted in us having to have our house washed. Yup, you read that correctly. The warm and humid weather is great for moss and over the past two years our white house has slowly turned green. It didn't look great but it did add an extra layer of insulation. Not quite the green Eco house that we had in mind though.

There is never a dull moment when you are afloat in the southern seas. And it looks like the superstorm that has been ravaging Australia is going to pay us a visit. Great. With another wet week forecast I'm seriously considering swapping my shirt and trousers for a wet suit, flippers and snorkelling mask for my walk to work.

With all this water around, it would be quite easy to start to feel a little vulnerable - if I stopped to think about it that is. But at the end of the day, well, it's only weather isn't it and it will pass. No, it's the tsunamis that you should worry about......

Election Fever

Forget the trivialities of the US election, it's election time here in Auckland and election Fever is gripping this one-time capital of New Zealand. And being keen on the democratic process we can't wait to get involved.....

Or at least we would if we were allowed to vote. You see the powers-that-be exclude us immigrants from the democratic process. And who can blame them? Who would want dirty and ill-informed outsiders from voting in a New Zealand election? Especially when they don't, after all, contribute anything to the economy. What do they know about life in New Zealand. No, it's much better to leave important decisions to those that know best. Yes, I may have an opinion and the outcome of the election may effect me but I can just keep it to myself thank you very much. It's probably as well - the last thing this government needs is any help from a lefty-outsider. And they say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.

Anyway, with no means to influence the outcome it is quite fascinating to see how another city manages the democratic process.

I must say that it's a little confusing. Firstly, there is the sheer number of different parties. National, First, Labour, Upside Down Party. Actually I made that last one up, but with so many parties, all with different values, aims and aspirations it is hard to know who I would pick, if I could vote that is. At the last count there were a total of 19 candidates. Yes, 19! You should see the ballot paper.

When travelling around the city, it doesn't take long to bump into the election posters. They're everywhere. Every spare bit of land is filled with huge wooden structures with posters of beaming individuals promising the earth. Why have just one election poster when you can have nineteen? If one party has a poster then the rest will soon follow. Maybe it's an election rule. I could look it up I suppose but as I'm not allowed to vote, what's the point.

If it is a rule then it is actually quite a good idea - seeing them all together, in a political line-up, saves me the bother of having to read any of their election pamphlets and I can make a snap judgement based upon whether they look like sane individuals or someone you wouldn't trust to look after themselves, let alone the budget of an metropolitan city.

"A vote for me is a vote for common sense," screams one election poster. And what a tempting prospect that would be. I'm all for a bit of common sense as long as it is used in sensible situations. It wouldn't do to waste a good dollop of common sense in an impractical situation.

"Vote for me and I'll build a train line to the airport," boasts another. Well I must say that he doesn't look like he has it in him. Quite a claim for a man in his fifties. Mind you, he doesn't say how long it is going to take him and whether he'll have any mates to help him. I can just imagine the conversation, post election win, in the pub when he breaks the news...

"Well done Bob on that election win"

"Thanks Terry, it was a close call but that promise to build the rail line to the airport swung it"

"I know, I can't believe that people fell for that," Terry added.

"Err, what are you doing on Saturday?"

"Not much, why?"

"Well I'm going to borrow a couple of shovels so I thought we'd make a start"

"Start what Bob?"

"Errr....can I get you a pint...."

The run-in to this election has been quite entertaining. One of the candidates is rumoured to win by a significant majority and this has upset one of the rank outsiders. Well I say rank outsider but what I should say is deluded outsider. This particular individual has been consistently polling at a predicted 4% of the vote share. It's good to see that it has not dampened his spirits - he simply refuses to believe they are accurate, just as much as he refuses to believe that not having any actual policies is a contributing factor. Actually he does have one election strategy, and that is to accuse the favourite of being rubbish.

Take this transcript for his latest interview when asked about his poor poll ratings;

"The reason people have approached me is because they, like me, share the idea that Tom* hasn't got the answers to fix Auckland's problems, so I think the most responsible thing for me to do is rather than pull out is frankly to double my efforts to make people aware that a Tom* mayoralty seems inevitable and that's not going to fix the problem."

Genius.

And so it goes on. With so many candidates, there are hundreds of permutations. Vote for change, strong leadership, fresh ideas, real results, more of this, less of that, more of the same, more spending, less spending, faster, slower. It's enough to make your head spin. It seems to me is that the candidates should just make their minds up - have a meeting, and agree what they stand for and then come and tell the electorate what they are going to do if given the keys to the big office. If that doesn't work then maybe we should set them a written test. Something relevant like how much is a pint of milk, what is the capital of Peru and what's the most cost effective way to increase the volume of traffic that can travel through the city whilst having enough budget to solve the housing crisis.

It certainly beats dragging everyone to the polling station to put a cross on large sheet of paper. Sounds like common sense to me!

"Rapid Rent-a-fence" seem to have the clearest policies

* Names changed to protect the guilty

On the UP

For those who have missed the headlines of the world's newspapers, and shame on you if you did, Auckland now has a plan. I know, good isn't it. And it's not just any ordinary plan. No, this one is a Unitary Plan. No longer will we have a Proposed Auckland Unitary Plan, or PAUP for short.

So what is it? Well from now on, Auckland has a plan that will guide the growth of the city. It will dictate where tall buildings go, like in the city centre, and help planners decide where larger homes - those with gardens and the like - are best placed. Like on the outskirts for example. Obvious really. What is surprising is that it has taken over two years to decide this. Two years? Really? Have these planners never played Sim City? It has certainly kept Auckland's planners and lawyers busy for two years, and far be it for me to suggest that this was the reason it has taken so long......

When I arrived into Auckland, those short two years ago, the office was awash with talks of the PAUP. Being new to both the office and the country I didn't want to show my ignorance by asking what, or who, it was. For a short while I thought the head of the Catholic Church had recently become interested in planning matters in New Zealand's largest city. 

"Oh, the Pope will help clear that up," said one planner colleague to another at the coffee machine

"I wish they would hurry up and release the Pope," said another.

"Where's Sandra?', asked another

"Oh, she's working in town in the Pope"

Eventually I had to ask and the whole matter was cleared up - and I'm glad that I did because I was very close to making an absolute pratt of myself. And in danger of offending a religious order.

Matters of religion aside, Auckland really does need a better plan then the one it had. Which was nothing. So on that basis the PAUP, or I suppose the AUP as it should now be called, it's a vast improvement. It does seem to be the very epitome of lack of foresight to build the country's most populous city on the narrowest neck of land. And it really is quite narrow. At its narrowest point Auckland, and by extension New Zealand, is little more than 2km wide, which not only presents a transportation nightmare but also makes a mockery of the country's coast-to-coast walking challenge as most people would complete the trip on the way to the shops. 

Against that backdrop, it's crazy that Aucklanders still yearn for the Kiwi ideal. Ask the average Kiwi what is their dream home and they will tell you that they want their own place, surrounded by greenery with perhaps a few chooks and sheep to complete the rural idyll. To you and I this is actually called a farm, but to a Kiwi it's a 'lifestyle block'. Presumably they would complete the picture by getting up at the crack of dawn, working until it's time to get up again and complaining about how nobody understands how hard their life is. Tscchhh, these city folk!

So the very idea of wanting a lifestyle block in the middle of the urban metropolis should seem a little....well ridiculous. Well no. And whilst there are no farms in the centre of Auckland, there are plenty of properties with significant land within shouting distance of the CBD. That's not to say that there aren't any office blocks and tall buildings in the CBD, of course there are. But I do wonder how they got there. Maybe an avaricious neighbour decided to sub-divide their property and sell some of it off to a developer? I can imagine the conversations they would have with the adjoining property as the tower cranes moved in;

"Wow, that's a big crane. You having some work done?"

"Err, yes. We're building a granny flat for mother-in-law"

"And you need a crane that tall? How big is the flat going to be?"

"Errr, no. It's going to be a bungalow....."

"So what's with the crane...Hey, you've not sold your land to one of those city developer types have you?"

"......err, no. Of course not."

"So what about that crane?"

".......errrr.....well......its......errrr......oh, it's for the shopping innit! She's going to need some help getting the shopping out of her car"

"Of course! What a great idea..... Can we borrow it?"

Property size is one thing. And that is contentious enough. You would think that, having announced the plan, that everyone would be relieved that the city would have some direction. But no. There are those that are concerned that their property will be caught up in the wave of urbanisation. And in some cases they will, but that unfortunately is the price of progress. And there are others that think they are going to be evicted whilst a multi-level dwelling is built on their land. It would take a particularly nasty planner to forcibly evict a family from their home whilst a larger capacity dwelling is constructed. Quite easy in Sim City but no so much in the real world.

And then there are the transport issues. This is where the plan has been quite clever, ground breaking even. The larger areas of population growth have been identified as those nearest transport corridors; motorways, rail lines and the like. This has mostly been greeted with appreciation of the city planners' foresight buy some didn't like the idea. Why? Well they complained that their motorway connection into the city would get even busier because of the extra people using it. When it was suggested that they could get the train they responded with a look that suggested they'd been spat at.

And there, in that vignette of interaction, is the problem. You see, Aucklanders are hooked on their cars. I know of plenty of work colleagues who would jump in their car to drive less than 1km to the shop, those who would park up 100m from the office to grab a coffee before continuing their journey, and those who shiver at the very idea of travelling with other people. You think I'm making this up? Our main client's office is in the CBD which is a short train journey away, fifteen minutes at the most door-to-door. It's not unusual for people to drive to these meetings, spend half an hour trying to find a parking spot and then complain on their return about being late and how there is never enough parking in town. Do they modify their behaviour? Of course not.

Removing parking to ease congestion and improve public transport is a contentious issue. Transport planners know that it makes sense but equally they want to see some improvments, rather that see their project get bogged down in months and months of debate, after which the removal of parking will be quashed and they and the city will be no further forward.

Auckland is trying. New train links, improved bus services and simpler fares are on their way. Ferries help shuttle people into the city from neighbouring suburbs and cycle lanes are popping up everywhere. Some of this might rub off. It's going to take a huge shift in travel behaviours and a realisation that not everyone who chooses to travel on public transport is unwashed and down on their luck. Well, there was that one time when I got a bus back from a half marathon where I was, ahem, less than clean. And a little fragrant. But otherwise public transport is quick, cheap and environmentally advantageous. Letting the train take the strain.

I'm sure Auckland will get there. It has to. Either the temptation of quick and cheap travel will pull Aucklanders out of their cars, or being stuck in traffic from hours on end, day-in day-out, will eventually push them onto public transport. And once they do, just think what can be achieved with the spare time they suddenly have! Well for a start, those chooks won't feed themselves.......