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….