Ice Scream Fury

You know that you’ve reached a particular low point in your life when you start to feel angry at ice cream. Once you’ve found yourself venting your spleen at sweetened dairy products where do you go from there? Pissed off at pizza, whining at wine or cheesed off at...well... cheese? 

I’m not normally an angry person, I’m really not, but last Saturday I unexpectedly found my hackles raised. By something as innocuous and pleasant as ice cream. How did I get into this state? 

It had been a pleasant and dry night, a rare occasion in what’s been a particularly wet spring in Auckland, and after a couple of drinks we settled into a cosy Mexican restaurant. It was unusually lively and after some excellent fried chicken we decided to skip desert and grab an ice cream on the way home. Not only was there an award winning ice cream parlour not far off our route home, but we would also be able to eat al fresco and away from the hustle and bustle of the lively restaurant. 

For those that don’t know the Auckland ice cream scene, there isn’t one. A good ice cream in Auckland is as rare as a reasonably priced house, or to put it another way rocking horse shit. In fact, to be blunt, two or three decent placed to buy ice cream does not a scene make. And no, I’m not counting Movenpick in that calculation. They don’t count and have no business being in the Southern Hemisphere.

Giapo is another proposition all together. If I was being particularly pretentious then I would say that they were artisan ice cream makers, but I’m not going there. Instead I’ll just say this. If you want a nice simple, but tasty, semi-frozen desert then this is not the place for you. Walk on. Find a dairy. Get a Tip-top.

In all fairness, my spider-sense should’ve started tingling as soon as we entered the premises. The was not a single sign of ice cream in view, other than those that had already been purchase by a group of Japanese’s tourists. Where was the dairy deliciousness? Just as we were starting to wonder if we’d accidentally wandered into an estate agents.....

“Hello, my name is Amy and I’ll be your guide tonight.”

Well that was an unusually turn of phrase. What on earth was she going to guide us to. We only wanted an ice cream. Then, just before we could ask for clarification

“Please, come this way”, she said, pointing towards one of four pedestals with a iPad perched on top. Still no sign of any ice cream.

Intrigued, and a little discombobulated, we made our way to the pedestal and were presented with a menu. 

“May I introduce you to our flavours?”

Before I could get the words “Just a vanilla please” out of my mouth she disappeared only to return moments later with a wooden spatula containing a blob of ice cream on the end. 

“This is our most popular flavour, caramel infused with vanilla and slated caramel”

“Nice”, we said and dutifully slurped the ice cream from the end of the spatula. 

I looked up and was about to ask if they had anything, well, less fancy but was too late. She’d disappeared again to return as before brandishing a wooden stick with another sample of ice cream.

“This is quite special. Double chocolate with crushed hazelnuts and real gold sprinkles, accompanied by fresh cream from Swiss cows whilst a string quartet plays Handel’s Messiah. It’s quite an experience.”

Or at least that’s what I think she said. I’d lost interest around the ‘quite special’ stage. All I wanted was an bleedin’ ice cream. Not fussy and the flavour. Vanillla, chocolate, boysenberry. This was all getting too much.

“What else can I get for you? Maybe you would like to take a seat whilst you chose? Or maybe I can book you in for a tasting tomorrow when it’s more convenient and we can go through your options in a little more detail?”

Frustrated, I replied “err, nah. I’ll have that one please”, and hastily pointed to a random spot on the page. 

“Excellent choice. Would that be in one of our hand folded sugar encrusted cones or in a c..”

“Cup!”.

If I was a little brusque it went unnoticed. I was done with options.

“Very good. Now for the side options. Which of these toppings would you like. I’ll just pop and get some samples for you to try to help you decide....”

“No toppings please just give me the bloody ice cream!”......is what I should’ve said but instead just nodded my head whilst she disappeared and we repeated the whole charade once more.

Eventually, we got to the end of the whole process and our order was repeated back to us. We agreed that sounded like the deal we had come to and the details were entered into the iPad perched on the pedestal.

“That’ll be $23and 50cents”

I was speechless and expecting for that price the ice cream would have to be delivered by a truck. Possibly two.

“Please take a seat. There might be a bit of a wait because the chefs are busy with a few orders already.”

We stood at the back of the reception area, for want of a better word, and stared amazed as sweet sculptures were delivered to their destinations. These things were fantastic and in all shapes and sizes from the petite to gargantuan. Some frosted and others glazed, shimmering in the early evening light. There was one that looked like a sea creature had just been dipped in chocolate and stuck in a cone. 

Squid ice?

Eventually the door to the kitchen swung open and two ice cream marvels in a cup were presented to us. They were like nothing we had seen before. Not so much an ice cream but an edible piece of art. In fact, the only way we knew they were ice cream and not something to display in a trophy cabinet or on the mantle piece was because the were cold. It’s ice cream Jim but not as we know it. This was going to be amazing.

It was then as I took my first bit, eager to find out if all of the hoopla was worth it, I came across a fundamental problem.... I couldn’t actually eat the ice cream. The toffee encrusted glaze that had been so lovingly applied to the ice cream had been gas flamed into something approaching sugary concrete. The flimsy spatula that had been handed out wouldn’t even make a dent and was dangerously close to snapping.

“For f*ck’s sake”, I grumbled under my breath, “this is rock hard!”

I struggled on for a few hundred metres, desperately looking for something that would help break down the ice cream’s seemingly impenetrable coating. A jack-hammer maybe? 

I was getting nowhere fast and had only managed to prize a few small spatula sized pieces of ice cream into my mouth. It was a struggle with very little to show for it so as I passed a bin I tossed the $12 ice cream unceremoniously into the trash. 

I have to say that what little I was able to eat was perfectly pleasant but definitely not worth the pomp and palaver that came with it. At least not to me. I'm sure many would have persevered and been rewarded with a delicious ice cream treat. Maybe I should've been more patient, savouring the moment rather than rushing in an nearly breaking a tooth? But I'd gone past the point were patience was available. Perhaps gourmet ice cream just isn't for me? I’m all for a bit of adventure but not in ice cream. Call me simple but I’ve been just as happy with a nice vanilla choc top thank you very much. Am I sure? Oh, okay. Let’s push the boat out and go for a double choc top!

Let's Do This

After three years of writing I have rarely, if ever, dived into the hazardous waters of writing about politics so I how you will forgive me this one time. And if you don't, well we'll just had to file that in the 'hard-cheddar' category!

Still here? Good, and I promise you that it is really relevant today. For today, sometime shortly after noon, I voted in my first ever New Zealand General Election. Or NZGE for short. Not that anyone is calling it that. Just plain old GE. But for those who can vote in two countries it's important to make the distinction don't you think?

Anyway, if you thought the UK's electoral process was complicated, it ain't got nothing on the Kiwi version. So for those out-of-towners, I'll explain (with more than a little help from Wikipedia and RadioNZ website for the tricky bits!);

How is the New Zealand Parliament structured?

New Zealand has one House of Representatives, usually with 120 members, although the number can increase because of one or two overhang seats, depending on the outcome of the electoral process. More on that later. The term of the New Zealand Parliament is set at three years, which is not quite long enough to get anything done but equally not enough time to do any real damage, unless of course you manage to convince the electorate that you deserve another three years in which case you can run amok. 

That's odd. Was it always like this?

Nope. The term of the Parliament has changed over the years almost as often as I change my socks. In New Zealand's early colonial history, elections were held every five years, as established by The New Zealand Constitution Act of 1852. The term was, however, reduced to three years in 1879 because of concerns about the growing power of central Government. Since then, the term has been altered three times, mainly in times of international crisis. 

During the First World War it was extended to five years. In the early 1930s, it was pushed out to four years. This proved to be unpopular with the electorate and after the election of 1935, the term was reduced to three years again. 

It was extended to four years once again during the Second World War, but returned to three years afterwards. In 1956, the term of three years was entrenched in the Electoral Act which means that it can only be changed by achieving a majority in a national referendum or by a vote of 75% of all members of Parliament

But it's just like the UK right?

It was but not any more. Until 1994, New Zealand used the first-past-the-post electoral system, just like the UK, whereby whichever political party won the most seats on election day became the Government. As we all know this process favours two party systems and for the last 60 years, New Zealand elections have been dominated by the National Party (think Conservative for a UK equivalent and the Labour Party (think errr... Labour Party). Smaller parties found it hard to gain representation and in 1994 New Zealand officially adopted Mixed-Member Proportional Representation, or MMP for short, as its electoral system. Before we get onto that, and I recommend that you get some strong coffee ready because it takes some powers of concentration, there is one unique feature that I need to explain.... Māori seats.

Māori Seats? What are they?

A unique feature of New Zealand's electoral system is that a number of seats in Parliament are reserved exclusively for Māori. However, this was not always the case. In the early colonial era, Māori could not vote in elections unless they owned land as individuals. Not surprisingly European colonists were quite happy with this state of affairs and at the time, Māori were dealing directly with the Crown in regard to the Treaty of Waitangi so and had little interest in the 'pākehā parliament'.

During the wars of the 1860s, some settlers began to realise it was necessary to bring Māori into the British system if the two sides were to get along. After much debate, in 1867 Parliament passed the Māori Representation Act which established four electorates solely for Māori. The four Māori seats were a very minor concession; the settlers had 72 seats at the time and, on a per capita basis, Māori should have got up to 16 seats. Māori with only Māori ancestors had to vote in the Māori seats and only Māori with mixed parentage were allowed to choose whether they voted in European electorates or Māori electorates. 

Surprisingly, this dual voting system continued until 1975 and there was, from time to time, public discussion about whether New Zealand still needed separate seats for Māori as it was considered to be a form of apartheid. In 1985, a Royal Commission on the Electoral System was established and concluded that "separate seats had not helped Māori and that they would achieve better representation through a proportional party-list system". The Commission recommended that if mixed-member proportional (MMP) system was adopted, the Māori seats should be abolished. 

However, the Māori wanted to keep them and the seats were not only retained under MMP, their "number would now increase or decrease according to the results (population numbers) of the regular Māori electoral option". As a result, in 1996 before the first MMP election, the number of Māori seats increased to five, the first increase in 129 years, and in 2002 it was raised to seven.

Needless to say, the existence of Māori Seats is still being used as a political football and remains a hot topic of debate. I'll leave it to others with a much better grasp of New Zealand history and politics to explain.  

Hey, the coffee's ready. So what's all this about MMP?

Right. So why does New Zealand have this weird voting system? I thought you’d never ask. It’s as simple as 1-2-3. 

1. Donald Trump lost by five million votes, but got to be president anyway.

2. That kind of thing used to happen in New Zealand too.

3. It can’t anymore, because… MMP.

Surely the winner is always the winner. How stupid do I look?

No, really. In both 1978 and 1981 the party with fewer votes ran New Zealand. It was pretty unfair – so it was changed.

Yay NZ. So what was it changed to?

Blimey, pay attention. MMP.

Oh, that doesn't sound very exciting. I was expecting more of a Strictly-Come-Voting kind of deal. I feel let down. Why is MMP so cool?

MMP is proportional, so however many votes each party gets in the election is mirrored in Parliament. But not every vote – only party votes.

Yeah! I'd vote for a party.

Not that kind of party.

But isn't every vote for a party?

God, no. That would be easy.

So every vote is for a person?

Nope, try again.

I give up, that’s all I had.

First - everyone gets two votes.

Generous but weird.

Pay attention, this is the vital bit. The two votes are different. You get:

• One (1) electorate vote - for a person to represent your local area.

• One (1) party vote - for the party you want to be the government.

So, twice the power!

Not really. One is useful, the other is powerful. The vote that affects the election outcome is the party vote. Party vote. You can use the electorate (local) vote however you like - vote for someone you like or trust, even if they’re from a different party to the one you want to win the election.

But the party vote – that’s for the party you want to win the election. The party you care about. The party you hope will be part of, or leading, the government.

That’s easy. Why does anyone get confused?

Because of this next bit. I warn you to leave now and stay blissfully unconfused. 

Still here.

Take a breath then. To get into Parliament, a political party has to achieve one of two thresholds. First, if a party wins five percent or more of the total party vote, they get that same percentage of MPs.

So if they got exactly five percent of the party vote they would get six MPs?

Yes, exactly. Five percent of the total 120 MPs is six MPs. Good maths.

Woohoo. Achievement unlocked!  And the other way?

If a party win any electorate, they get that electorate MP, and they get extra MPs to match whatever percentage they got of the party vote.

Plus that MP?

No, including that MP. So if ACT won the Epsom electorate, and also got, say, 1.8 percent of the party vote, they would get two MPs - including the MP for Epsom.

Because 1.8 percent of 120 MPs is two?

Exactly. Ultimately, each party’s proportion of all of the MPs in Parliament is exactly the same as their percentage of the party vote.

And who would that second MP be?

Each party publishes a list of wannabe MPs that will be used to top up its proportion of the party vote, after accounting for its electorate MPs. That’s what they call the party lists.

But what if they won an electorate but only 0.2 percent of the party vote, and so didn’t deserve any MPs based on percentage

You just described Peter Dunne’s United Future party result in the 2014 election.

They still get the local MP. But Parliament gets resized to 121 MPs to try to work around that extra MP. It’s called an ‘overhang’.

Which must make it harder to form a government, right?

Yes, because then you need 62 MPs to get a majority rather than the normal 61, which favours the coalition the overhang MP goes along with.

But what if your party doesn’t win any electorates, but gets 4.9 percent of the party vote?

So close, but they fail to get any MPs.

No wonder people get confused. What would happen to their 4.9 percent?

Good question. The percentage of party votes that doesn’t lead to MPs is called the wasted vote. It gets shared out among the successful parties in proportion to their own vote win.

So if six percent of party votes were ‘wasted’, and National got, say, 47 percent of the party vote, they would get given another three percent and get topped up to 50 percent?

More or less. You really have this maths thing down.

Thank you. I am now also fully confused and a little bit tired.

Good. My work here is done. But you really don’t need to know all that detailed stuff just remember, the party vote is the important one. Use it well, Grasshopper.

Phew! If you've made it this far you're technically an expert on the New Zealand electoral and parliament system. 

So what does an election campaign look like in New Zealand? 

Well, there is certainly less nastiness than during those held in the UK and it's a refreshing change for policies to get some airtime and column inches over personal attacks. That said, the Labour candidate has been questioned on her gender and whether the fact that that makes her fit to lead the country. Hasn't she got babies to have and washing to iron? Mostly it has been positive coveregae but it has degenerated over the last few weeks as the poll results continued to show an alarming trend.....

You see, for a while it was perceived that it was a foregone conclusion that National would waltz back into government. At the last election Labour had spectacularly imploded and showed no signs of mounting any kind of challenge to the dominant National party. Champagne had been put on ice, the foie-gras had been ordered and Bill English, the current NZ Prime Minister, was already selecting which tie to wear for his victory speech. That was before Jacinda Ardern took over the leadership of the Labour Party on the 1 August. Under Ardern there has been a ground swell of support for the Labour Party, especially among the younger electorate, and with it a 15% upturn in the polls with very little daylight between either of the main parties numbers. Fancy building a campaign around a positive message and a glimpse of a brighter future. What was she thinking?

Not quite the foregone conclusion that it once was. Predictably, with the pressure now on, the National Party has turned to their friends in the press for help as experts were rolled out to explain how much worse off people would be under a Labour government. Oh and the fact that the opposition leader has the audacity to be female. 

So how did you vote?

I'm not saying. That's between me and my conscience. For those that know me and my political affiliations it wouldn't be a huge leap of the imagination. Voting has already started - it is a two week period in New Zealand - so I'll have to wait for another week to find out whether I'll be jumping for joy or drowning my sorrows. 

Aussie Rules

I have written about Australia with such frequency recently that I'm seriously considering changing the title of this blog.  'Little Adventures in a Big Country' maybe. Too twee? Maybe. A bit corny? Definitely, but it's as good as it gets this late in the day.

It may come as a bit of a surprise to some readers of this little corner of the internet to discover that I am, once again, in Australia. For the second time in as many weeks, the reasons for which are too convoluted to explain here, I have touched down on Aussie soil for a few days of recuperation. Well it's important to have a bit of a rest after a big holiday isn't it? And, I have been back in work for two weeks. Okay, well only eight and a half days, but they were quite busy ones. I just hope the Australian authorities aren't on high alert and suspect me of immigration by stealth. They needn't worry because flying in every two weeks is an expensive business and not something that I can sustain over a long period. Sorry New Zealand, you haven't gotten rid of me just yet!

Anyway, we're back in Australia and have spent a fantastic few days relaxing in Melbourne in what is our second, and hopefully not last, visit.

Previously we were here to attend two concerts which whilst gave the impetus for us to visit, curtailed some of the activities that we could engage upon. Plus it was summer then and now, with the thermometer at the lower end of the range, we were ready for a totally different experience. 

The thing with visiting cities, especially when time is tight, is that it's all too easy to simply tick of the must-see sights, have a couple of drinks, pack your bags and then move on to the next destination. And that's just fine as you'll leave Melbourne thinking what a great place it is and promise to return should circumstances allow.

Which they did, and so we found ourselves once again in the capital of Victoria, or Vic for short. This time, rather than rely on the wisdom of the internet, we had some good friends to show us around. And what a difference that makes. If you are ever given the opportunity for some locals to guide you around your chosen destination I thoroughly recommend that you take them up on it. You won't regret it and you'll get to see parts of the place, in this case city, that other sources may otherwise overlook. 

Not only did we get to drink, eat and chat in some great pubs and bars, see our first real Australian Football League (AFL) game, more of which in a moment, we also visited coastal towns, hillside villages, cable-carred (if that isn't a verb then it should be) up to a stunning view point and fed local wildlife. All within the confines of a single city. 

So AFL. What's that all about? Well, after seeing Carlton take on the mighty Hawthorn I consider myself to be a bit of an expert. "What after only one gone?" I hear you ask. Well I'm a quick learner and I had good teachers. So in a nutshell, here is a true idiot's guide to AFL;

Firstly, imagine a game that is a cross between soccer, rugby, basketball and even wrestling and you might get somewhere close to the spectacle that is AFL. Add to that heady mix the fact that there are 18 player per side and at least six referees, not to mention numerous pink-clad runners and you've got one hell of a game. To the uninitiated chaos seems to be the order of the day but, as I learnt, there's more to it than meets the eye.

The aim of the game is to get the ball through one set of the four uprights at the opposing end if the pitch, which is incidentally oval and not rectangular. Not only does this mean that the game can be played on slightly modified cricket pitches, it also prevents the soccer spectacle of an entire team being camped in one of the corners, protecting the ball from the opposition whilst the clock counts down, only to spectacularly fail at the last second and watch, distraught, as the opposing team gains the bell and saunters down the pitch to score in an open goal. Just watch any game involving Middlesbrough FC and you'll see what I mean.

How the ball gets through the uprights is entirely up to you. Running with the ball, handling or kicking is all allowed with the only limitation that you can't hold the ball for more than 10 metres. Or as long as the referee permits according to some of those around us in the stadium. Points are awarded for getting the ball between the posts with a higher score for a clean kick through the centre set. If the ball is deemed to have hit the post, then less points are awarded as it's considered, presumably, to be less worthy. Which is a shame because some of the most entertaining, if not intentional, goals I have seen in soccer are those where the ball is kicked optimistically into the box, ricochets off a half-dozen players before hitting the goalkeeper on the side of the head and deflecting into the goal  off the post. Ah well, it's AFL's loss.

Still with me? Good. The game is played over four quarters of twenty minutes each, with the clock stopping whenever the play is interrupted. The interesting thing is that only the timekeeper, who is out of sight to everyone, knows exactly how long is left leading to the odd situation where the entire stadium don't know how long is left in the period and therefore can't slope off to the bar. Or toilet. This avoiding the "Shall I, shan't I shuffle" that plays out across the football grounds in Britain every Saturday at 3:45pm, give or take a few minutes for stoppages. Unless you are Manchester United and playing at home in which case it's until you score a goal. 

The other discerning feature is the sight of a referees, or umpire, turning their back to the game and throwing the ball tens of metres over their heads into play. It's a fascinating sight and quite an energetic feat, although it did occasionally look like an overly-competitive bride who was trying to throw a bouquet over the heads of all of the assembled guests and into the car park. 

And that's just about all you need to know. It's fast, free-flowing,  occasionally confusing and sometimes brutal.. Much like life itself but more good natured and with comfortable seats!

Creature comforts

After the humidity of Darwin, it came as blessed relief to step off the plane into a cool Auckland afternoon as a gentle northerly breeze soothed our skin and swept the red dust of the outback from our clothes....we some of the dust anyway. I swear I'll be finding the red pigment for years to come.

Where once if felt as if the whole environment was out to get us, we felt instantly calmed and, well, safe. That is not to say that we didn't have a great time in Australia, it was a fantastic experience and thoroughly recommended, but we never felt truly relaxed. Admittedly our cosseted UK upbringing has a lot to do with that -  you were more likely die of thirst from the once archaic pub opening hours than you were from exposure and  "a nasty nip" was to do with inclement weather and not part of the fauna.

So it is only now, with the guards down as it were, that I feel safe enough to entertain you with a story of our brush with Australian wildlife. Read on......

We had been in the Outback for nearly a week and considered ourselves to be seasoned bush travellers. Well providing someone else was doing the driving and there was an ample supply of hot towels obviously. To this point I'd seen a whole raft of animals, some more deadly the others, but none short of fascinating; crocodiles, both freshwater and salt, parrots, Rock wallabies, kangaroos, muddy munters (or something like that - it was a fish so I wasn't paying much notice), turtles, Reef sharks and several spiders. But despite all that, I still hadn't seen a snake and so, despite feeling slightly relieved, felt short changed.

It wouldn't have been a problem except I was warned to always walk at night with a torch, especially when visiting the toilet, for fear of accidentally standing on a wandering belly crawler. Although I hadn't been advised of the implications of standing on a snake, it didn't take much imagination to see that it would not end well. And I don't mean for the snake.

To rectify the situation, our guide was on high alert to seek out, with a fair margin of safety of course, a local snake for us to photograph, again from a safe-ish distance. In fact I wasn't really fussy, if a local reptile wasn't available then a travelling snake would do just fine. Maybe one on his holidays. Happy either way.

Despite this, we had been travelling for several hundred kms without so much of a sniff, or hiss, of a snake. I was told, I suspect to manage my expectations, that as this was technically winter the snakes were hibernating and therefore unlikely to be out and about. This wouldn't stand. Hadn't they seen the brochure? Now at this point, it's fair to say, that Sarah was less than thrilled at the thought of seeing a live snake. This was nothing new and I only have myself to blame and admit that I shouldn't made her watch that documentary 'Snakes on a Plane'. Ah well, you live and learn.

Anyway, we ...sorry I... was starting to lose hope. We'd been travelling down a dirt track for over an hour and whilst termite cathedrals were awe inspiring, they weren't snakes. Then, just as I'd resigned myself to the fact that we wouldn't see any elusive reptiles today, the bus sudden lurch to the side of the road, leaving a dust plume as it did, and our guide suddenly jumped out of the cabin.

"He says he thinks he's seen a snake hid for cover in the bushes over there," said Steve who was sat in the passenger seat. 

Sure enough, our guide was scrambling in a bush just out of full view of the rest of the passengers. This was it. At last a chance to photograph a wild snake. It didn't matter how big it was, although I really wanted it to be huge, this was the opportunity we were waiting for.

He approached the side door and sure enough, wriggling in his grip, was a red-bellied black snake, so called because it was black with a red belly. An accurate name I'm sure you'll agree. Thankfully he seemed to have a good grip with the tail of the snake in one hand and the 'neck' in the other, gripping just behind the head so it couldn't inflict a fatal bite...

Actually I've got no idea whether red-bellied black snakes are poisonous but in a country where sea shells can inflict paralysis it's a safe bet that they are.

He opened the side door, very carefully so as not to lose his grip on the deadly creature, and stepped into the bus.....

....and tripped, accidentally flinging the reptile onto Sarah's lap. 

Well, you can imagine the reaction. I've never seen Sarah move so fast. With a thoroughly understandable shriek, she jumped up and almost knocked herself out on the roof of the vehicle. I'm still sure that, had there been no impediment to her trajectory, that she would e given Jess Enis a run for her money. And the snake? Well it lay motionless on the floor. Odd. 

A grin broke out on the guide's face. Even odder. Surely he should've been a little more concerned about his passengers' health. It was only through a second look at the snake that the truth began to dawn. It was plastic. And not alive. And therefore not at all poisonous.

"You bastard!" 

There may have been a response but I didn't hear it for the laughter. Mine and the rest of the passengers'.

As japes go, it was pretty good. Damn fine even and really well executed. So good in fact, it overcame the fact that we hadn't seen a real snake, and still haven't as it turns out. 

And that's ok. There are plenty of opportunities to do so in zoos behind the safety of safety glass. Better for me, better for the snakes and certainly better for Sarah!

Perspiration, parrots and parkrun

I'll never complain about being too warm at a parkrun ever again. Honest!

We returned from our tropical tour last night and after enjoying a few beers and a meal we dragged ourselves out of bed for one last time. The difference being, however, that it wasn't a sunrise that was on offer but a 5km run, or parkrun to be precise. Some may argue that that the prospect of a run is even less of a reason to get out of bed in darkness, but we were in town on a Saturday and there was a parkrun so it had to be done. 

The only drawback is that due to the heat and humidity the run started at 07:00am, which by extrapolation required a 06:00am alarm call. To put it in context, this was a whole hour earlier than New Zealand parkruns and two hours earlier than those in the UK. After all of the early alarm calls on this trip, the early start should've been second nature but it was so tempting to just turn it off and turn over and go to sleep. I'd like to think that it was the lure of air conditioning and a comfortable bed that was the main reason but I suspect the beers from last night also played their part.

But no, we'd come this far and a late surge of steely determination pulled us out of bed and into running kit. After weeks of relaxation and relative inactivity it felt odd putting on running kit - and it felt it had a slightly snugger fit than the last time it was worn. How strange. Maybe it had shrunk in the wash?

The hotel apartment was lovely and cool but as we opened to door the heat hit us - it was if someone had wrapped us in a blanket. We hadn't even taken a dozen steps and we already sweating profusely. This was going to be tough!

It was only a short walk to the starting point - we would've normally jogged there to warm up but in this heat there was no need to warm up and the thought of losing even more fluid than was absolutely necessary kept us at a walking pace.

As we waited for the run to start, parrots were waking up noisily in the trees above.  Our local parkrun is next to Auckland Zoo so it's not unusual to hear elephants whilst waiting for starters orders, but it was quite something to be surrounded by parrots. You don't get that in Darlington! 

After the briefest of briefings, and a big shout out to the runner from Scotland, we were off. Although the first kilometre was slow it was fairly easy going, or so I thought. After a couple of tight turns, the pack started to thin out and I slowly increased my speed. That was a big mistake. As I hit the halfway mark, it was clear that the lack of running and suffocating humidity was taking its toll. 

I have been known to stop at water fountains during parkruns in New Zealand but usually only once and, more often than not, the reason is due to dehydration from the takeout food the night before and not from over-exertion. Today was different. I must've stopped at six or seven water fountains during the short run and it was the first parkrun where I have seen a dedicated water station.

Finally, after leaving a trail of drips from sweat, I was into the final 500m and started to run for home. Except I couldn't. With an increase in speed came more sweat and shorter breaths. How does anyone breathe in these conditions? It felt like tying to run with a scarf around my face. I've never wanted to stop so much but managed to keep going - the finishing line was in sight.

As I staggered over the line in a relatively slow 24 minutes something or other, I was relieved to have finished. 

"Are you ok there?" a local asked me, probably a bit concerned by my purple-faced appearance, before adding, "that was a strong finish!"

"Thank you, but that was tough. It's so humid!" I replied.

"Naaaa, you should try this in the wet season. It gets really uncomfortable then!"

The thought of trying this again in even more insufferable conditions was not tempting in the slightest and I was happy to have just finished. 

We dripped our way back to the hotel, spurred on by the thought of a cool shower, air conditioning and several litres of cold water, content that we had completed our first parkrun in Northern Australia and the closest one we have ran to the Equator, and probably ever will unless we decide to holiday in Singapore..... Now there's an idea.....

"My Sunrise is Better than Your Sunrise Sunshine"

This has certainly not been a holiday for rest - recuperation certainly but definitely not rest. And it's been all the better for it. 

Aside from trying to cram as much into our time in the Northern Territories, the other reason for our pre-dawn departures has been to view sunrises. Admittedly we are early risers anyway but it's been worth dragging our tired bodies out of the tent and getting dressed under the beam of the head torch. 

Today was no exception. After a short drive to the nearest road bridge we watched and listened as the jungle both came to life and went to sleep. As the light increased, so did the noise of the bird life, reaching a fever pitch as the red dawn gave way to proper sunlight. Pareots, bats, hawks and countless others looking for the first or last meal of the day. Flocks of birds, seemingly oblivious or uncaring about our presence, flew overhead, so close that you could almost feel the downdraft of their wings.

In animal terms, it was the equivalent of a shift change as the nocturnal animals give way to their daylight compatriots. All the while saltwater crocodiles patrolled the waterway hoping for an early snack. And under the surface, turtles and fish briefly surfaced to grab what insects have been foolish enough to get within reach.

It was a magical scene and the photograph below only captured part of it. 

It very nearly didn't happen. There was some division within our small tour group last night over whether it would be worthwhile getting out of bed before sunrise once again, and that maybe a lie in would be a better use of our time. On a roughly 50:50 split, it would take an excellent piece of negotiation skills and reasoning to break the deadlock...

"I promise you, it will be something special," said our tour leader before adding, "and only a fifteen minute drive from here."

It certainly sounded like a good proposition but the debate went on and one of the group piped up;

"I'm sorry but I've seen a sunrise over the Nile and I can't see it being better than that so I'm not going to get up early just for that"

Hhmmmm, it would appear that the argument wasn't gong to be resolved anytime soon. My initial thought was to wonder how spectacular a sunrise over the Nile must be - and what a special place to see one but I could see that others were less than impressed by the opinion stated as fact. The discussion, however, was getting nowhere. Eventually a truce was declared and a compromise was reached - those that wanted to see the sunrise could get up earlier whilst those that stayed behind would get their lie in providing they organised breakfast for the sun seekers return. Sorted and peace maintained.

"If I'm awake, I might go to see the sunrise, but I'll not be happy if it's not worth it" said the Nile man. 

"You might find you get a slap if you decide to do that," added another. 

As it turned out, just three of us got up early whilst the rest slumbered on. 

It was during the short drive to the viewing spot that something occurred to me - was the sunrise over the Nile truly special, better than all others across the planet, or was it given that status just because it was over the Nile?  Are all sunrises over the Nile automatically given the top spot by default? Would those who class the Nile as their home agree, or would they cherish more a sunrise over say the Swiss Alps or where we are now stood? Jim Jim Billabong seems to me to be a most agreeable place to witness the birth of another day.

Surely they're all different and special in their own way? Just because one is over a notable river and the other over a less celebrated billabong doesn't mean one is better then the other, it's just that as humans we attribute a more elevated celebration to one rather then the other. 

I have seen some fantastic sunrises on this trip but equally memorable ones from the mountains of the Lake District, over the skyline of cities and even the parks of Darlington and Auckland. Each and every one was worth seeing and more than compensated for the slight inconvenience to witness the spectacle.

Without getting too maudlin, we all have a finite number of sunrises in our lifetime so why not grab each one with both hands and celebrate the sheer joy of being alive. There is, after all, plenty of time to sleep when you're dead!

Dreamed Beneath a Desert Sky

It's impossible to describe the absolute magestic beauty of the night sky over our bush camp. But not being one to shirk away from a challenge I'll give it a go anyway.

Being in the middle of nowhere has its advantages. Whilst I like the home comforts just as much as the next person, there is something to be said about getting away from it all. And by everything I mean everything....well everything except a power source for my mobile device obviously. And as that is a solar charging power cell and we're in Australia that's not a huge proble. 

Anyway I've digressed: where was I? Ah yes, well speaking of solar power, I'm currently looking up and staring at a large chunk of our solar system. (Nice segue huh?) and there is more stuff out there than I've ever seen before.  

One of the advantages of being in the Outback is there is little-to-no light pollution, and with that a whole lot more detail. The usual suspects are there, Orion's Belt, and the Southern Cross to name but two, but inbetween there are thousands upon thousands of tiny stars. And sweeping across the centre, in a translucent arc made up of millions of stars is the Milky Way. Our home. Other than in an observatory I've never seen such detail*. It's awe inspiring stuff.

And then, just as I start to wonder exactly how far, and by extension how old, the stars I can see are I'm suddenly stricken with a feeling of guilt, then inadequacy. How can I be so ignorant of something that has been there all my life? Where's Professor Brian Cox when you need him? Is it too much to ask for to have him pop down and give me a quick summary of what I'm looking at? 

I could, for a few moments anyway, dream up an excuse and suggest that my unfamiliarity is just because I'm in a different hemisphere to the one I grew up in and that, once I'd found the North Star at least, I'd be fine. But that's a total lie. In fact I'm not even sure I'd be able to find the North Star. My guess is that it'd be towards the North, but that's just a hunch and totally useless for navigation if I need to find the direction I want to find before being able to determine the course....

Anyway, the sky looks amazing and one of the unexpected perks of being in the Outback. I was given the option of sleeping under the stars in a Swag but I politely declined despite being reassured that the sleeping bag and mattress combination was warmer than a tent. I remained unmoved in my decision. I didn't dare admit that it wasn't the cold that was putting me off but the far-too-close-for-my-liking interaction with the wildlife. You can, after all, only take this star gazing so far.....

* Simce writing this blog I've been reminded that we saw fantastic stars from Wanaka on New Year's Eve in 2015. How could I forget? Well I had had a few drinks and was lying on picnic table at the time....