Somewhere Down the Crazy River

When is a walk not a walk? When it's a river journey of course.

New Zealand, I guess to keep the unwary on the straight and narrow, has developed nine Great Walks. Most of these are, as you would expect, on dry land and covering mountains, bush, islands and of course the coastline. All except one.

The Whanganui Journey is actually not a walk but a kayak voyage on New Zealand's longest navigable river. The three day trip (not trek) from Whakohoro to Pipiriki takes in some stunning scenery and some challenging river rapids. Well, challenging enough when your chosen vehicle is a 14ft open canoe. Anyway, as this is not your usual multi-day trip, uncharted waters so to speak, I thought it would be useful to pass on what we learnt. So here it is, our handy cut-out-and-keep guide to the Whanganui Journey…..

Prepare for the worst - hope for the best

If we were anxious before we left the motel in downtown Taumarunui, it was nothing to how we felt after the safety briefing. The talk of losing canoes, rapids, eddies, submerged rocks, overhanging branches and of course accidental drownings had done absolutely nothing to calm our nerves. Quite the opposite really. Why on earth did we chose this as our hiking trip this summer. Couldn't we have done something less risky like climb a mountain or something? To make it worse, I knew it was my idea and as each new revelation was revealed in the briefing the glare from Sarah's eyes got sterner and sterner. I can't be sure but I think she may have mouthed "You're dead" at one point. Great, I thought, if the rapids don't get me then a whack over the head with a paddle should do it. 

It didn't get any better once we were kitted out with our river equipment. As well as the obligatory canoe and paddles, we were handed a river map which highlighted the rapids, a life jacket for when we capsize and waterproof barrels for our possessions. Oh, and the pièce de résistance, a cut off milk plastic bottle to help bail out the water. Nice. 

Take everything, including the kitchen sink

Although we are experienced hikers, we didn't have a clue how to prepare for a multi-day river trip. After much deliberation, research and discussion we did the sensible thing and took exactly what we would've taken had we been walking the 90km. Well, it was much easier, had already been proven and besides.... we had saved a packing list on our file server. 

As we packed our canoe at the waters edge,  we saw groups of people carefully lashing pots, frying pans and huge cool boxes to their canoes. What about the weight, the decreased manoeuvrability and the satisfaction in only taking the bare essentials? Oh how amusing. This smugness, which of course only manifested itself externally with welcoming smiles and handshakes, was to soon evaporate. 

In a little under eight hours, our three days rations of dehydrated hiking food would look severely inadequate against our fellow travellers' spaghetti bolognese,  chilli con carne and other such succulent delights. Rehydrated beef stew is a delicious meal when you have to carry it on your back for several days but not when you have to cook it next to those enjoying more sumptuous offerings. At the end of a day of furious paddling we were starving and the meal we had 'prepared' was delicious. We sat in silence relishing the flavours and textures whilst secretly wishing our companions choked on their Black Forest gateau.

The long drop

Whilst Whanganui may be blessed with some stunning scenery and a wonderful feeling of remoteness, it comes at a price. The loos. I have to say that I am no stranger to porta-loos. I’ve used them on construction sites, at festivals and at running events. But nothing, nothing prepared me for these long drop loos. Oh my god! The first time I used them I was simply not prepared. I walked in, sat down and took a breath……. bile churned in my stomach and I suddenly felt light headed. “I know”, I thought to my self, “I’ll simply breath through my mouth”.

This was not a good idea. Now, rather than smelling the poo I could taste it. I’m sure it had burned my taste buds because even hours later, whilst we were eating our breakfast, the taste of porridge was seriously…well…..poo flavoured.

I started to fear my early morning movements, so to speak, and calculated just how many times I was going to have to visit the toilets. Over time I developed a technique. The trick is to take a Buff, or some sort of scarf, liberally doused with deodorant or perfume, and position it tight against your nose. Then simply breath through your nose. Now don’t get me wrong, using this method you’re not about to sit their for hours on end doing crosswords but it will stop you wanting to throw up. Which has got to be an improvement.

It is no surprise then that the first flushing loo we encountered on the bus journey back to the canoeing centre was greeted with such enthusiasm. 

Whilst we are on the topic of bodily functions, an honourable mention has to go to the possum who kindly left a little present on the breakfast table. They were running around on an evening, clearly not afraid of humans, and I guess one of them decided to mark its territory. It could’ve been worse I suppose - river rats were also know to inhabit the area around the huts, no doubt attracted by the food that gets dropped. Which brings me on to…..

Take everything in - take everything out

A word of caution - everything that you take in, has to be taken out. Don’t fancy finishing that not-so-tasty rehydrated chicken curry? Tough. There are no rubbish bins so it has to be packed up and taken home. If you think the thought of eating a meal that you don’t like is bad, so is having a sloppy mess in one of your bags for another two days. Suck it up.

It’s not all downhill from here

I was under the impression that water flowed downhill. Not so. There are some seriously flat sections of river that need to be crossed. In my head, this trip was going to be a leisurely ride down a river with the occasional rapid. It is bloody hard work. When you are not furiously padding to navigate a rapid, you are furiously paddling to get through a flat section of water. If left to its own devices, the canoe with gently float through these sections but they have a mind of their own and have a tendency to float toward the nearest rock, tree or canyon wall. 

After 90km of paddling be prepare to have hands as rough as sandpaper; blistered and calloused. Or take cycling gloves.

Be Prepared for People

If you’re not a people person, then this is not perhaps the trip for you. Yes you do get some ‘me’ time on the river but at the end of each day all the paddlers end up at one of the designation campsites or huts. Ok, so its not going to be like the last evening in Glastonbury but with 25 bunks and 50 camping spots, that is a lot of people in one smallish space.

If you are a people person then be prepared to meet some interesting folk, and I mean that in a good and bad way. In many ways, this was the highlight of the trip. Within a few minutes of arriving we got talking to Pete from Taumarunui who is a keen disc golfer (think frisbee meets golf), Brady - an american finding his way in New Zealand and manager of a restaurant in Wellington, Anna - originally from Sweden but living in New Zealand and an amazingly competent woman. She was taking her son down the river for the first time. Natalie and Greg on a three month holiday from Canada, Francis, Troy and the rest of that family crew. Oh, and I mustn’t forget the Spanish guys who seemed to tackle everything with a smile and a joke.

It was quite comforting to know that, should you get into difficulty, there was plenty of people around to help out. And to provide some entertainment. On one particular long flat section on the last day we were slowly drifting through a narrow canyon with Peter, Brady, Francis, Troy and the rest of the clan. It could have been quite a trial - the river was moving slowly, it was very hot and it was taking a huge effort to get anywhere. Thankfully we have the melodious voices of our companions to keep us entertained. Their repertoire was eclectic to say that least, segueing from pop ballads, to haka, show tunes and easy listening classics. It was like having the most random of radio stations in your canoe with their voices in harmony bouncing off the canyon walls. Add to that the near perfect mirror reflection on the water and it it made for a truly memorable paddling experience.

The singing didn’t stop there, unfortunately. When we arrived into the Marae at Tieke Kainga we were asked by the warden if we would like to take part in that evening’s welcoming ceremony. “Sure,” I said. I’m all for new experiences. Five other male travellers also volunteered to take part. “Excellent!,” said our host, “What song are you going to sing?”. Song? Sing? In public? This wasn’t part of the deal. Why had I been so hasty to get involved? Never volunteer for anything had been my mantra and it hadn't steered me far wrong in all those years. Eighteen months in New Zealand had clearly had an effect. 

What on earth was I going to sing? My only other public performance had been in a Karaoke bar nearly thirty years ago. I did’t think ‘Wild Thing’ was going to cut it somehow. It was agreed that I would go second, after Angel one of the Spanish contingent. Up he stepped, with the rest of his fellow countrymen, and gave sterling performance, including harmonies and a rhythm accompaniment. The bastard! How was I going to follow that? It was my turn. Shite!

The only song that I could think of that was remotely appropriate, from my home region, and one that I stood a chance of being able to remember, let alone sing, was “Brothers in Arms” by Dire Straits. There I stood, out in the middle of the field in front of our host and the rest of the hut occupants and wondered if I could go through with it. I opened my mouth and took in a gulp of air…….

“These mist covered mountains are a home now to me. But my home is the lowlands, and always will be………”

As I sang I looked over towards our host who had his eyes closed. I’d like to think that he was concentrating on the melody and the moving words of my rendition of the rock classic but I rather think that my singing was causing him pain and he was willing me to stop. Ah well. I should’ve gone with Wild Thing. 

Expect to get Wet

It may sound obvious but you are going to get wet at some point on the journey, either deliberately or by accident. Probably both. Our paddling experience and skills had been steadily improving over the first two days. Yes, there had been a few close calls and one or two times where the canyon wall got a little too close for comfort in one of the rapids, but we were doing ok. Certainly better than some of our travelling companions who seemed to get dunked at every possible point. Well, with the exception of Natalie and Greg who were experienced canoeists and did this sort of thing for fun back in Canada. They took capsizing very seriously - primarily due to the fact that the water they were used to was glacial and a bit on the chilly side. Nothing like the Whanganui in the summer - the water temperature was like a tepid bath, albeit a bit muddy from a recent tropical thunderstorm.

Obviously the biggest risks are the rapids that pop up every now and again.  But add to that other canoes and jet boats and you have quite a potent mix. The jet boats, in particular, were a risk. These took holiday makers up and down the lower part of the river - thrill seekers and those less inclined to canoe. Their wake was immense, especially when it started to bounce of the canyon walls. To only warning that was given was hearing another canoeist shout “JET BOAT!”, perhaps preceded by the faint roar of an engine. If you were lucky, there was enough time to rotate the boat so it was perpendicular to the wake. Too slow? Well you’re going to meet the wake side on and that is no fun. 

Yes we were doing ok and were even starting to anticipate problems before they arrived. So by the time the last day came around - the day with the biggest rapids and a particularly tricky set called the 50:50. So named because you had a 50% chance of making it through upright. After negotiating the first set of rapids that day we were getting confident without being too cocky. With an hour to go before the end of our journey, we had made it through the majority of the rapids and were almost congratulating ourselves when we came across a monster set of white water. This was a rather tricky s-bend in the river with enough of a gradient drop to make the water rip up. At this point in the journey eight boats had congregated together at the mouth on the rapids and we lined up in turn to take a run through the white water. There we sat, the sixth in line, watching each boat got through - keeping an eye out for tips on what to do, or more accurately what not to do. Of the first five through, four had tipped out. The odds were not looking good. But still, we had made it the far without getting wet so surely we would be ok. 

We lined up out canoe and started paddling furiously - the one thing that we learned is that you need to be going faster than the surrounding water in order to have any control over your vessel. “Faster!” we shouted as we entered the foaming water. We were in control and well through the first part of the rapid. “Change!” I shouted, indicating that we needed to change the side we were paddling on. “Faster!” came the response as we hit the most turbulent part of the rapid - the water was reflecting off the left hand canyon wall, the one that was getting closer and closer as our canoe sped into the right hand bend of the rapid. 

It all happened so quickly. We hit a trough in the waves, another wave came over the front of the boat and we were sucked under. Rapids 5 - Canoeists 1.

Being suddenly dunked under water is quite an experience. By the time your realise what has happened other thoughts take over. “Now what?” being the most prevalent. We still had the canoe, one of the paddles (Sarah’s) and we happily floating through the backdoor of the rapid towards a rock. The rock was already home to two soaking paddlers; Anna and her son, so surely there would be room for two more? Ahh, make that four more - the boat behind with Pete and Brady had also succumbed to the rapid. My the river was doing well today. 

As the rock got closer I stretched out an arm and flailed as I tried to get purchase on the jagged rock. I felt my fingernails scratch at the surface but I couldn’t get enough of a hold to slow the canoe. Blast, we were going to be dragged further downstream and possibly into another set of rapids. Suddenly I felt an arm grab my wrist. It was Anna. She had managed to secure her position and that of her son’s and then was able to grab me as we floated past. It was good timing because almost at the same time, Brady had grabbed our boat to slow their descent down the river. Anna now had two canoes and four people in her grip. 

I managed to get a foothold on the rock and slowly dragged myself out of the water whilst Anna held onto the boat. Damn! I’d lost my hat. “Is this yours?” came the voice from a kayaker who had seen our predicament and came to help. He had found my cap floating downstream and had paddled back up to return it to its owner. 

Pretty soon all three boats were upright and the process of bailing out started. This was not as easy as it seemed on dry land. At one point, Brady was scooping water out of his boat and accidentally tipping it into ours. “Do that once more and I’ll kill you”, Sarah shouted. Ah the camaraderie of canoeists!

Once more of our travelling companions came over to help, and returned my lost paddle, we were soon back on our way. Natalie and Greg floated past. They were dry and clear hand;t been one of those unfortunately to get a dunking. These were experienced canoeists and obviously knew how to negotiate rapids - they had taken one look at the water, and the drop in the river level at this point, and decided to get out and walk the canoe over the gravel bank. Discretion being clearly the better part of valour in this instance.

We soon passed the sign that said “Pipiriki 500m”. Our destination was in sight. We’d done it! Not quite, as it turns out. Just around the bend and less than 100m from the end was the 50:50. A foaming, frothing double rapid that was right int the middle of the river. No going around. No gravel bank to help out. “Here we go again,” I shouted to the front of the boat before adding, “at least we won’t have far to float!”

Miraculously the 50:50 didn't claim any of our canoes that day - the river was in flood and so this set of rapids was not as viscous as usual It was still a close run thing though - no sooner had we got out of the rapid then a sideway current spun the boat through 180 degrees and nearly, nearly tipped us out. 

It’s Nice to be out of the comfort zone….and to return to comfort

We could have quite easily gone hiking, as we did last year. That seems more natural to us. If we haven’t quite got the magic 10,000 hours under out belt we must be pretty close. After all, walking is something that I have been doing for a while. All my life actually, give or take a few months at the start and a couple of occasions after particularly heavy nights on the beer. 

Canoeing, on the other hand, is not something that either of us had done a lot of, especially if you discount the couple of trips on the municipal pond in Scarborough.

Just as it was great to get back onto dry land for the last time, it also gave an immediate sense of self-satisfaction. We had spent three days out of our comfort zone and had lived to tell the tale. Before we started the trip, the biggest fear had been capsizing and being out of control. The strange thing was that, it wasn’t all that bad. Once you had actually been through it, and had the soaked undies to prove it, the rest was a doddle. Everything after that point did’t seem too bad. Maybe the trick was to capsize on day one? Maybe not.

As we sat on the air conditioned bus, eating the homemade chocolate muffins that had been provided, we could finally reflect on what an amazing three days it had been. Yes, it the scenery was stunning, the weather was perfect and the river was exciting, but above all we got to meet some really great people.  

Ready to put-in

"Another day, another blister"

Home for the evening - watch out for possum poo!

Not sure the floppy hat is appropriate paddling attire.

But it did stay on, even when we capsized 

The only way to travel

Starman

Since arriving in New Zealand I've been regularly amazed, surprised and sometimes shocked by the choice of stories chosen to grace the front pages of the national newspaper, The New Zealand Herald. Sometimes it's the choice of the actual story that is on the cover but occasionally it is the story that is not. 

Now I haven't done any actually numerical analysis - I'll leave that to the experts - but I get the impression that the prevailing headlines fall into one of three categories;

Rugby - the national sport graces the front of the national newspaper more often than not. Let's, for the sake of argument, say 70% of the time. This may or may not be true but why let the truth get in the way of a good story. The All Blacks are surprisingly good at Rugby and so should get a fair smattering of coverage but what is surprising is the length that The Herald will go to ensure that happens. Whether the team win, lose or draw then a picture of a player will beam (or frown) appropriately from the cover. If there isn't a suitable game to cover on the, err, cover then how about linking the story to an All Black player?Hopefully the victim is a relation of a player. A distant cousin will do - it doesn't pay to be picky. Perhaps they met an All Black player once? If that doesn't work out, then a good fall back is to simply get the opinion of a player on the story. Easy as.

Auckland House Prices - another favourite topic of the New Zealand Herald, which let's face it is the Auckland local paper, is the astronomical rises in the Auckland property market. Debates roll on endlessly about the cause, the duration and whether there is a bubble that is about to burst. With a population of 1.4 million there are plenty of newspaper column inches to be had. Yes we know the prices are high, and that individuals are stupid enough to fork out over $1m for what is basically a wooden shed with curtains, but does it really warrant repeated reporting? Apparently the answer is yes. No wonder Aucklanders are Jafas to the rest of the country.

Deaths - Quite worthy of reporting but depressingly frequent are the stories about accidents on New Zealand's roads, beaches and mountains. Any outsider reading these articles would get the impression that New Zealand is a dangerous place in which to find one's self. It's not. Not like its neighbour Australia, where every living creature seems to be hell bent on shortening your life in some gruesome way. But the sheer frequency of accidents in a relatively small population surely must give pause for thought? Not at all. Road crashes, drownings, collisions with trains and falls from mountain tracks are all too common.

With all this stuff going on, world events don't get a look in. Nuclear testing in North Korea? Page 35. The rise of fascism in Europe? Page 38. I started to wonder what would it take to relegate the All Blacks, house prices or another accidental death from a freak wave to the inside pages. The death of a monarch? World war? Maybe.

In the 11 January I got the answer. David Bowie. Yes David Bowie. The headline on the national newspaper on the 11 January 2016 reported the sad loss of one of music's true geniuses. This, of all of the media's worldwide glowing tributes, perhaps spoke the loudest. It was a moving and heartfelt report. 

Admittedly, as the article continued to later pages, they got the reaction of his death from an All Black, but it was tastefully done and genuinely touching. Being a relatively recent arrival into the country, I had no idea that what could be the farthest country on the planet from his home had such a deep respect for him. Well done New Zealand.l and well done The Herald.

Of course, within a few days, normal service had resumed and once again Auckland was the centre of the universe. The 'wobble' in world's stock markets and the crashing of oil prices caused the paper to wonder just what this would mean for Auckland's house prices and just what would Richie McCaw make of it all......

Hot on the Heels

I know the ink is still drying on my last blog but I just have to share this.

We have been, of late, relaxing in a sleepy town called Raglan. Nestled out on the west coast of the North Island it is an ideal place to while away the time, take in some sea air and let the stresses of modern life ebb away with the evening tide. 

Until tonight. 

So there we were, minding our own business (which admittedly is unusual for us) idling away the time on the verandah of the Harbour View Hotel with a cold beer and reflecting on the activities of the day which, being Raglan, had involved drinking tea, eating ice cream and sleeping. You see Raglan is a place where even the sleepy go to relax. It is so laid back that the place is positively horizontal. Where was I?

Oh, yes. So there we were relaxing, when the wail of a siren could be heard in the distance. Then, a small sporty hatchback hurtled down the main street. Well, I say main street but it is only a couple of hundred metres long. But anyway, this car hurtled down the street, windows open with the arms of several young men waving enthusiastically to the static and slack-jawed onlookers. They were, several seconds later, followed by the pursuing siren and the accompanying police vehicle who were giving chase.

Now, I feel that I have to stress, if it has not already been made clear, that Raglan is not a big place. There can't be more than two roads into the town and, as it is on a peninsula, there are not a lot of other roads in between. A handful at best.

Almost as soon as the police had passed out of sight, the protagonist appeared once again and sped in front of the onlookers, or if you prefer spectators, and hurtled down the main street. Inevitably, the police followed and they both successfully completed one lap of the small town. 

After the third lap, the police had clearly spotted the developing pattern and wisely decided to despatch a second police car. This should have quickly resolved the problem except now we were witnessing what seemed to be a police car being chased by a small sporty hatchback, which in turn, was being pursued by another police vehicle. Much, it had to be said, to the delight of the spectators who cheered their support for their new underdog. With each competed lap, the arms in passing car waved more furiously and the cheers grew louder.

At this point occurred to me that the police would surely be better off regrouping and simply blocking the two roads into the town? Eventually the speeding car would run out of petrol, cigarettes or, even worse, crisps? 

But no. The pursuit continued. Except this time, the perpetrators had changed their tactics. Cunningly, they were now going in the opposite direction. It took the police a while to cotton onto this and for a short period of time we witnessed the strange spectacle of a police car chasing a police car around the town centre. Or at least that's how it looked.

But it was getting out of hand. The speed had increased, as had the desperation and there was a real chance that a serious accident could occur. By this time, the sporty hatchback was driving on the wrong side of the road, going the wrong way around the mini roundabout and narrowly avoiding on coming cars and strolling families out enjoying the summer evening. 

It was after one such near-miss that the chase left the town and we never got to see the final scenes play out. Hopefully the police came to their senses and let the perpetrators go. Surely by now they had enough details to pursue them from a safer distance? Either that or they were too dizzy from the pursuit and needed a sit down.

Thankfully the excitement of the rest of the evening did not follow the opening act. Within minutes Raglan had returned to its sleepy state, the spectators to their beer and, as the early evening relaxed into the night, Raglan raised its arms above its head and let out a contented sigh on a day well done. You've just got to love this place.

A Game of Two Halves

I I'm really trying to suppress my optimism because as I sit here and write this, the mighty Boro are four points clear at the top of the Championship with a game in hand. So that's effectively seven points clear isn't it? An unassailable lead and promotion guaranteed. Or at least you might think. Hhmmm maybe not, this is the Boro we are talking about.

But more of that later. I find myself in the unusual position of supporting a club but not being able, not in any practical sense anyway, to turn up for games. I've always thought it a bit odd that some fans proclaim their undying love for a team but have never seen them play - even when they live in the same hemisphere. But here I am, 12,000 miles away from the Riverside (or 'Fortress Riverside' as it is undoubtedly being called in bars on Teesside) and proudly boasting to be a Boro fan. Technically I could go to some home games but it would be one hell of a commitment - I'd be so jet lagged that I'd probably snooze through the game I'd gone to see. In recent times this would've been a God send - I have sat through some turgid games; windswept, cold, bored, frustrated and embarrassed. With the time-zone changes, I probably wouldn't even know what day it was. A bit like the Stachan era team I suppose.

Travelling halfway around the world and back to support my team is not going to happen, so I have resigned myself to being an armchair supporter. Or, as I am usually asleep when the games take place, should that be a bed-time supporter? Either way it's okay. Except when I look at the team sheet and read the names I've not got a clue who these people are; what they look like, their strengths, weaknesses or most importantly what their chant is. I'll never forget the glorious sound made by the Riverside crowd when Joseph Desire-Job got the better of an opponent. 'There's only one Job on Teesside' must go down as one of the finest post-ironic football chants ever. Who said football fans weren't erudite?

But being 12,000 miles removed doesn't help my optimism levels. Only witnessing the results and not the performance does raise expectations somewhat. I can't see, for example, the near misses, lapses in concentration in the defence and flukey wins. Yes I can (and do) analyse the stats but even they can give the wrong impression. To me, a 2-0 win is simply that. Three points following another classy display. I know, from bitter experience though, that the Boro like to do things the hard way. 

But I am very optimistic about this season. Surely, as I stated at the top of this blog, we can't squander a four point lead? But again, bitter experience tells me that we can, and usually in fantastic fashion. Three up at half time? Great, but surely it's better entertainment to let the opponents score two right after the break to set up a nail biting second half? Why stop there? How ably getting a player sent off with ten minutes to go? I'm told it's character building. Which is great if you want to build a character that is tense, sarcastic grumpy and pessimistic.

But I am starting to feel a little excited. Oh go on, very excited. So much so that I offered to buy a close relative a pint if we get promoted as champions. 'So what?' I hear you say? Well I also offered to fly him to New Zealand to drink the pint to help me celebrate. I know. Well there is a lot of football to be played before then. And knowing Boro it won't be straight forward.... but it's going to be fun finding out!

Happy New Year from Planet Earth

It seems like quite a negative way to start a blog, let alone a new year, but I feel that I need to apologise.

You see, this blog is going to sound rather downbeat and negative. It's not intended to but I know, even before I write the words, that is it going to. Obviously I'm hoping that it won't be, obviously I'm hoping that it will be life affirming and uplifting. But I'm not that good a writer. Maybe in the hands of someone more skilled.....

Anyway, last night we decided to head into Wanaka and join in the revelry and celebrations for New Year. Not surprisingly it was packed, especially for a small town. The bars were full to bursting - drinks could only be consumed indoors despite it being a warm evening to contain the consumption of alcohol. It wasn't working - the town had its glad rags on and was not going to take them off anytime soon.

After a couple of drinks, the heat and tiredness took hold and we needed to get some air. After negotiating the wobbling, waving crowds at the lake side, we reached the end of the main street and the end of the street lights. And with the blanket of darkness that came with that, the sky revealed its celestial majesty. Stars. Millions of them. 

For the first time in my life I could see not only the stars, but also the stuff I between. The Milky Way I suppose. It was all too much. So whilst people in town drank, celebrated and reminisced over the events of the year, I laid on a picnic bench and stared into the cosmos. In comparison, a year on earth seemed like a trifling thing. A mere blink of an eye. What was a year anyway? Why celebrate the passing of, what is in reality, the transfer from one month to the next. It happens twelve times in a year, so why the hullabaloo? Are the hangovers really worth it? Of course they are, but in the grand scheme of things, is New Year really worth celebrating?

Last night you could see Orion's Belt as clear as day. Well not day, but you know what I mean. Take one of the three stars that form the belt, Mintaka. Mintaka is 1,200 light years away. Yes, 1,200. So to get there, even travelling at the speed of light (which is pretty nippy by anyone's standards) it would take 1,200 years to get there. Better take a packed lunch.

Or to put it another way, the light coming from there has taken 1,200 years to reach us. We are looking at something that is 1,200 years old. It may not even be there anymore. We wouldn't know. If it were to disappear tomorrow then we wouldn't know for another thousand years or so. Assuming of course they the human race is even there to see it. Which, if by the events of the past twelve months are anything to go by, is unlikely.

But let's not dwell on that - I'll leave that to others. Instead I'll just gawp at the hugeness of it all and take comfort in the vastness of the universe. And if anything is worth celebrating then I'll certainly drink to that!

Third Time. Lucky

HIt dawned on me the other day that we are about to spend our third Christmas in New Zealand. And it took me a bit by surprise - well I never was quick on the uptake. Third time. Blimey.

The first time was on holiday and, quite frankly, it felt like we were playing truant or something - as if we'd snuck off from everyone and had a holiday in the sun without asking permission. It was supposed to be a one off, a once-in-a-lifetime experience and something to tick off the bucket list. Not that I had one. But if I had, there would be one less item on it. And once done we were supposed to be back to normal. 

Yet here I am, sitting on the deck of our house in Auckland and looking out over the Hauraki Gulf as Christmas approaches once again. And once again, it feels nothing like Christmas. It's as if Christmas is happening somewhere else and we're just watching from a distance. Which I suppose from a certain viewpoint we are. 

There are a number of work colleagues who have been in New Zealand a lot longer than us, ten years or more in some cases, and they say it still doesn't feel festive. I guess a 'traditional' Christmas is hard-wired into the psyche of anyone raised in the northern hemisphere. Mind you, although they say they miss it, I don't see any of them jumping onto an aeroplane and heading away from a blossoming Kiwi summer into the depths of a British winter. 

So what exactly does Christmas in New Zealand feel like? As this is our third I do feel a bit more qualified to express and opinions. Not that the lack of a qualification has stopped me expressing an opinion in the past!

Well, there seems to be a lot less fuss around the festive period; less stress, no fretting over whether the correct gifts have been bought or if there is enough food in the cupboards to last through the wilderness of two days without a shop being open. It seems to be more about taking it easy, seeing friends and just going with the flow.

And it's rubbed off on us. We haven't even thought about what to eat on Christmas Day. It hasn't even crossed my mind. 'She'll be right' and in fact, in the time it has taken me to write this sentence, I have decided that we're going to have a barbecue - some nice meat, salad, maybe some roast Kumara. Easy as. There is still the option of Christmas pudding. Or ice cream. Or both.

So whilst I do miss the traditional Christmas - it feels appropriate to call it that - I don't miss the hassle, the weeks of preparation and the scrum that is supermarket shopping. It's nice to be able to really relax and not worry about it. The spend time spending time if you like.

And I know this makes us incredibly lucky, especially as the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to spend Christmas in the sun is coming around for a third time. Will there be a fourth? Who knows. Certainly not us. And so, if this is to be the last, we'd better make the most of it. Starting now..... there's a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge with my name on it.....

Right Wing Running

I suppose it was inevitable really and was bound to happen sooner rather than later, but I think I have become a running fascist. I know. But at least I have admitted it - which is surely the first step on the path to recovery?

The signs were always there, simmering under, but recently they have come crashing to the surface. It all started all so innocently, such as critiquing someone's running attire. Non-verbally of course - I am British after all. Surely that couldn't cause any harm. But now? I have an ever growing list of things that should be banned, limited, changed or controlled. So in no particular order, other than that in which they came to my mind;

Runners who run in races with headphones - I'm not such a control freak that I think anyone who's wears headphones whilst running is a moron, even if the even rules specifically ban them. I really don't care if they put themselves in harms way by not being able to hear traffic. Not one jot. No, what really ticks me off is when they suddenly decide to step in front on me as I'm passing. How rude. Surely a simple glance over the shoulder before you decide to change tack would help? 

Runners who spit on you - Following on from the entry above is a rather despicable subset of igornance. Running is, generally speaking, a mild mannered pastime and not known for bouts of aggression. Not like football, boxing or the rough and tumble world of crown bowls. But that doesn't mean you are immune for getting showered in another's bodily fluids. Thankfully it doesn't happen very often but that doesn't make it any less unpleasant when it happens. And it's not limited, like you might think, to the rougher of the two species. Only last week, when I was racing in Rotorua, just as I was passing a female runner she turned her head and unleashed, what can only be described as, a drenching. I know there are some that would pay good money for that but it's not my thing. She did apologise so that was all ok. Not!

Running with Dogs - If you want to take the dog for a walk don't do it in a race. Honestly is it too much to ask? And if you must, start at the back and stay there. I appreciate that it adds to the excitement of a running race, what with the headphoned lane changers and expectorating competitors, but having to suddenly jump over an outstretched lead because your four legged companion has suddenly decided to sniff a tree at the side of the course is just too much. And do you really need that 100m long lead? 

    Heap of runners just out of shot

Front runners - Whilst we're on the topic, not everyone can start at the front. I know it's exciting to be in a race but if you're not going to win (and that's most of us - honest) then start further back. It might just stop the congestion at the first corner and prevent the usual melee as faster runners collide with the slower competitors. And as for walkers. Yes you. You're welcome but get to the back. Sheesh.

Long socks - Now this is where it gets personal. I know there are some that believe that compression socks are medically advantageous, preventing strains and sprains. But they also make you look like a total tit. There is no form, male or female, that is improved by wearing socks up to your knees. And if you need proof, when did you last see, oh I don't know, Mo Farah wearing socks. Exactly. If you want to wear long socks when running go and live in a cold country.

    Good!

     Bad!

Grubby kit - Now this is limited to the male world of running. Can you do us all a favour and take a look in the mirror before you head out of the door. If your kit was first worn in 1975 it's probably past its best. Yes, I know it's comfortable but if it can stand up on its own then it's time to retire it. And just because it fit well in 1975 doesn't mean that is still the case. Just a tip, but if you can see your belly peeking from underneath the bottom of the once white garment, then you need a new shirt. Finally, just because there are no stains on the front, doesn't mean it's clean. Yellow is not mellow, if you catch my drift.

Cotton kills - Whilst we are on the topic of running attire, those jogging bottoms you bought for $10 really are not doing you any favours. Yes, I know they're called 'jogging' bottoms but for once the clue is not in the name. And that t-shirt. Yes, you may have bought it from a sports shop but if it's cotton then it's going to get very damp very quickly. And please don't be fooled, the Rocky Balboa look may look cool on young Sylvester Stallone but a sweat darkened shirt on a forty-something slightly overweight middle aged man is not good. Not one bit. 

    Tip - this is not what you look like

Running with phone in hand - What's all that about? At the end of a run I can hardly be bothered to hold my head up never mind clutch on to something in my hand. I know it shouldn't really matter to me, but if find it irksome. Buy a arm strap if you really can't be parted from your loved one during a run, but having it in your hand is potty. Or, and I appreciate this is a radical thought, try running without it. You won't faint, I promise. One of the joys of running is the mental peace that comes from popping on a pair of running shoes and getting out into the open air, listening to your heartbeat and just breathing. Go on, you know you want to.

Put it away - Yes, I know it's hot but there really is no need to run bare-chested. And why is it that the runners who feel the need to get their skin out are those that really shouldn't? It's an unnatural phenomenon. Go and get a good quality singlet and do us all a favour.

So there you have it, my gripes and bitchin' about running. And I know, it's not you it's me but I already feel better for getting it off my chest. It's going to be a long road back to tolerance but I'm going to try. All I ask is that, should you see a slightly grumpy white middle aged man tutting in your general direction, cut him a bit of slack. He's trying.