Run/Commute

Well it had to end at some point and, if I’m been honest, it was too good to last. You see for the last eleven years I have been able to walk to work. And not just that, it’s never been more than a twenty minute stroll door-to-door. I must admit that I have, on occasion, taken the simplicity of my commute for granted. There were days, for example, when I just couldn’t be bothered and found any excuse to jump in the car. It didn’t even have to be a great excuse. Rain forecast? Well better take the car just in case. Or I may get a parcel delivery so I’ll need to take the car to bring it back if I do. Feeling a bit off colour. Better save my energy and take the car. Totally shocking and absolutely without honour! Thankfully though, those instances were few and far between. For the most time, I’ve enjoyed over ten years of blisssful pedestrian based commuting.

Even when we made the switch to New Zealand, we made sure that our home was within walking distance of the office. Yes it was mostly uphill, but a twenty minute walk is much preferable to having to get in a car. Even when it is raining. The closeness to work did however shrink to ridiculous levels when I changed jobs at year or so ago with my twenty minute commute getting reduced to just seven. Yes seven! It was so close that I timed it to the nearest minute. Or if you prefer, 600m. It was in fact, so close that I was seriously worried that I’d turn up one day accidentally wearing my slippers and pyjamas!

I knew, however, that it was only temporary as it was a project office and not my main HQ. Even so, when we were finaly told a a few weeks ago that we were moving out it came as a bit of a wrench. If you ever caught me off guard, I might admit that it was a little too close but I was now suddenly faced with a much longer commute. Relatively speaking anyway. You see now, rather than sauntering down the hill to the office ,I’d have to find a way to get my butt 4km across town. Not a huge distance, almost too short to drive, but a much different proposition. But I had options.

The lack of parking at the new office meant that taking the car was out. Not that I would’ve particularly enjoyed that option anyway. Eleven years without relying on a vehicle is a hard habit to break. Walking was a possibility, but even at a reasonable pace it was still going to take an hour to complete each way. How about public transport? Well there was a bus service that would work but it was renowned for being totally unpredictable in the evening rush hour and, given the torturous route that it takes, only marginaly quicker than walking.

I did briefly consider cycling to the office then I remembered that Aucklanders are lunatics when you put them behind the wheel and I was likely to end up in hospital if I dared mix it with the incompetence of car bourne commuters. Six weeks in traction wasn’t enticing me so there was only one thing for it. Running! It had the advantage of being quicker than both walking and public transport whilst being totally free, save for extra wear and tear on my running shoes, was relatively safe.

I won’t bore you with the logistics, but making the change to running to the office has had its challenges and it’s fair to say that I’ve learned some valuable lessons along the way. So in case you ever find yourself in a similar predicament here’s my handy cut-out-and-keep guide to the weird world of run commuting......

Flat Out

Route selection is a critical part to regular run commuting. If you are blessed with a multitude of options chose carefully. It might sound like a good idea to take the shortest route, but if this is chock full of hills or is likely to be busy with pedestrians, then it's best to find another way. My direct route is just like that. A full 1km shorter but littered with signalised junctions, pedestrians and two decent sized hills. 

The alternative, on the other hand, is longer, reasonably flat but more importantly offers an uninterrupted run. 

If you do fancy a challenge on your commute, save it for the journey home when you can have a proper shower and don't have to worry about passing out from exhaustion in front of your colleagues.

If you insist on going the hilly way, enjoy the view at the top!

Space is Your Enemy
There’s definitely a trade-off between getting a backpack big enough for all your gear and having too much space. Why is too much space a problem I hear you ask? Well it is. Trust me - I’ve learned the hard way. The more space you have, the more crap you’re going to take with you each day. It might avoid the meticulous planning that goes into making sure you have everything you need whilst saving on weight, but it’s not fun trying to run with a pack that weighs 7kg. You might think it makes you look hard but two kilometres into your run you’r going too wish you hadn’t brought both pairs of shoes and all of those reference books.

Equally, think carefully about how you pack and try and minimise any potential gaps in your load. A bag with Tupperware boxes bounding around is not only audibly annoying but makes it difficult to run. Whilst we’re on them subject of Tupperware, if you’re one of those frugal types who likes to take their own lunch to work, select a lunch that isn’t going to get too damaged. Salad may be healthy, but mashed soup-like salad for lunch is disgusting. I know this from experience - four kilometres of running is not good for lettuce leaves, not matter how carefully it was prepared. If salad is your thing, as it is mine, then leave off the dressing - put it in a separate pot - and pack any spare space in the Tupperware with kitchen roll. It’s not perfect but it does minimise the liquidiser effect.

Roll With It

One of the big issues is how to get your work clothes to your destination without looking like they've been scrunched up in a bag. Which of course they have. I've tried several ways of packing but by far the most crease resistant is to roll it up. Lie the clothes on your bed, whilst mentally dressing yourself when you get to work to make sure everything is there, and then roll it all up together. Simple but effective. And don't forget to put it all in a dry bag or plastic bag! Your bag might not get wet on the journey but an accident with your accompanying lunch might put a crimp on your day.

Routine is Good
If you are to avoid carrying your entire wardrobe and showering products with you to work every day, a bit of planning is needed. Wait, scratch that. A lot of planning. Get it wrong and you’ll be faced with spending the whole day without any undies. Going commando might seem like a rebellious idea but it''s not worth the chafing.

So on Monday morning I take a look at my diary for the week and work out when I’ll be able to run to the office and when I’ll be finishing up elsewhere. Day one, I carry a fresh towel and some spare running clothes. No need to carry a towel every day and the spare clothes are in case it rains on my sprint to the office. Nothing more unpleasant than putting on wet clothes for the return journey. Well there is but I won’t go into that here. That’s for the pub.

I’ve also stocked up on some toiletries. My bottom drawer looks more like a shelf in Boots than a work receptacle. Gone are the notes, reference books and technical guides and in their place are deodorant, shower gel, moisturiser and other paraphernalia.

But no amount of planning can legislate for unplanned meetings. The pesky things. Just when you think you have your day mapped out, it’s a real pain to get dragged across town to a meeting. Especially if its towards the end of the day and close to home. No point in going back to the office to get changed only to then run back again. At least not to me anyways. If this happens, you will find yourself in the unfortunate position with everything being out of sync; once used running clothes in work, work shoes at home etc. Bloody nightmare. Getting everything back in order takes some doing and, yes despite my advice above, carrying duplicate clothing back to the office to reset the system.

Not-So-Personal Hygiene
So you've finally got to work. Well done, you're now officially a commuting runner and the only thing left to master is a clean down procedure. Take it from me, when it comes to running to the office, there is no such thing as personal hygiene. Everyone knows you whiff! And to make it worse, you know that everyone knows that you whiff! From the moment you step into the lift to the moment you get cleaned you will see people turning their noses up at you.

Which cleaning process you adopt is a matter of personal taste. I did try once to forego the shower and instead opted to use copious amounts of wet-wipes. I thought it would save having to have a second set of toiletries and save on time. I was wrong. Whilst is may have got off the worst of the crud, I felt sticky all day. Added to that was a certain lemony aroma and it made for a rather uncomfortable day. It may be the only option if there are no showering facilities in your building but avoid the use of pre-moistened wipettes if at all possible.

One of the most common (and perhaps pointless) questions I’ve been asked as I arrived at my desk dripping with sweat is “Have you just ran to work?” What did they think I’d been doing? How many co-workers did they know who sweated that profusely just by walking? Besides, didn’t the shorts, t-shirt and running shoes give it away?

But they had a point. The sight of a dripping wet colleague isn’t a great thing to have to look at first thing in a morning so it’s important to stop the leaking as soon as possible. Firstly, it’s critical to have a hand towel on hand to mop up the excess water. A damp patch around your desk is not a good look. Secondly, invest in a small fan. The type that plug into a USB socket on the computer are ideal. Or in my case just commandeer a colleagues. They weren’t using it anyway! Besides, they’re hardly going to complain if it stops you from dripping everywhere.....

Once sufficiently cooled, and whilst doing so it's a good opportunity to go through the inevitable email pile whilst munching on some cereal, it's time to take a shower. You might think this is a bit of a palaver, and is it really worth all of the hassle. Well after a bit of practice I've got a pretty good routine when it comes to taking a shower. Or to put it another way, if it was an Olympic event I be in with a medal chance. From leaving my desk to returning, I got the whole routine down to under six minutes. It does help that the nearest shower is only a few hundred strides away, but I don't hang about. Providing you have cooled sufficiently, you should emerge fresh as a daisy and ready to take on whatever the day throws at you, with the added whizz of endorphins.

Hanging Out

The only challenge left is what to do with your recently discarded running clothes. Even if you are not planning on running home, don't be tempted to stick it all in your back and forget about it. Believe me, sweaty clothing left wrapped in plastic for a whole day gives off an ungodly smell when you unwrap the parcel at the other end! It truly hums and is almost impossible to eradicate by washing. It's of utmost importance to hang out your running clothes to dry even if it does risk turning the workspace into a temporary laundry. If you have your own office then you have nothing to worry about. If, on the other hand, you share your workspace with others you might have to get more creative. Sure you could hang it all on the backs of chairs but it would be a pretty easy going colleague who didn't mind sweaty clothes on display.

My system is a little more discrete. Well I think so anyway. The space under my desk is turned into a makeshift clothes line. Out of sight, if not quite out of smell.

What else is the space under your desk for?

So there you have it. Not only have I managed to find a way to reduce the cost and time of my commute, but I've also integrated it into a reasonable fitness routing. No need to do extra when you get home because you've already done it. And travelled to work. A win-win situation.

So what are you waiting for? Even if you are not quite close enough, there might be public transport options that do part of the journey for you. Or how about driving part of the way and running the last few kilometres. It beats sitting in traffic in the city.

And if you do take the plunge, don't forget to enjoy it! Look around and you'll be surprised what you've been missing whilst sitting behind the wheel!

Admittedly, not all runs are equal. This takes some beating.

Anzac Day

It's 5:15am and the clock alarm has just gone off. Whilst this may not be that surprising for a working day, this is not one of them. Today, as is the case across the rest of New Zealand and Australia, is a national holiday. As I slowly get out of bed and wander into the kitchen, still shrouded in darkness, I do wonder why I have risen so early. Surely I'd have been better off having laid in bed longer, after all I get up early enough every day?

And I have done just that on previous occasions, dozing in bed, half-awake, listening to the sounds emanating from the Auckland Domain just a kilometre or so away. You see today, as the title of this post suggests, is Anzac Day. A day of remembrance for those who served and died in wars, conflicts and peacekeeping operations, and a day on which across the country, dawn services are held to commemorate the occasion.

So today, rather than luxuriating in bed, we've got up, quietly got dressed (or at least as quietly as one can in a house with no carpets and little in the way of acoustic suppression) drank our tea/coffee and set off through the dark streets up the hill towards the Auckland Domain.

Even now, as we walk through the eerily quiet streets of Parnell, I am wondering whether this is something that I should be doing. Isn't this a day for Kiwis? What can I, as a British Citizen and a self confessed pacifist, add to the occasion? Is this really meant for me? I'd hate to impose. I decide, rather lazily, that as I'm out of bed and dressed, there's only one way to find out.

Slowly, as the streets give way to bushes and trees, we are joined by others and by the time we reach the top of the hill, and the illuminated Auckland Museum comes into view, it's clear that we are not alone. Not by a longshot. The museum and the sacred ground in front of it, is surrounded by a crowd of people, hundreds if not thousands, who have come to join the service. It is quite a sight and surrounded by darkness, the museum looks spectacular bathed in red light, as does the Skytower on the horizon.

But I'm still unsure as to whether I should be here......

I didn't have to wait long to find out.

Within moments of the service starting my thoughts turn to those in our family who sacrificed everything in the Great War and, as the Auckland Mayor Phil Goff so eloquently stated, fought for peace that they never got to experience themselves. It was then, just as a single tear rolled down my cheek, that I knew that I belonged at the service. Whilst those gathered spoke about New Zealander's and Australians that sacrificed their safety for the service of their country, I thought about others around the globe that, even as we stood there, were engaged in conflict on some foreign field, town city or sea.

And with that, came a feeling of frustration at the futility of it all. What's the point in fighting for peace only to find it given up so cheaply and with little thought of the lessons that history has taught us? I'm sure that if our ancestors could do so, they would turn up and clip us around the head for being so careless. And we would deserve it....and then some. Even from the relative safety of New Zealand, the world seems a much more unstable place and...... I'll stop there, I'm getting angry and this is not the time nor the place.

By the time the Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern laid a wreath and the Last Post sounded across the field, my single tear had been joined by others and I'm thankful that I'm hidden by the cover of the darkness. But light isn't far away now, the sun is starting to rise over the Hauraki Gulf, silhouetting Rangitoto as it does and bringing the Tuis in the trees to song. As the last of the stars fade into the daylight, it's clear that it's going to be a lovely day and a smile breaks out across my face.

I had made the right choice, whats a few less hours out of bed. Besides, I can have a lie-in tomorrow. How does 6am sound? Perfect!

Out of Time

I think I might have to admit that I was wrong. I know, shocking. Having now been given a fresh perspective, and fresh being the key word here, perhaps The Gold Coast does has its charms after all.

We arrived back into Auckland in the early hours of yesterday morning, never a good time to arrive anywhere it has to be said, with the temperature barely above ten degrees. Or to give it its correct meteorological term, Bloody Freezing. How can that be? In a short space of time, a relatively quick three hour flight, we went from the balmy evening weather of The Gold Coast to a city where autumn was in full swing. Our attire of shorts, t-shirts and sandals seemed incongruous with our surroundings. Still it was the middle of the night so the cool weather was to be expected I suppose, and there wasn’t anyone around to wonder why we so poorly dressed. Tomorrow would be better.....

We learned, from a knowledgeble taxi driver on the way from the airport, that Auckland had recently been hit by an unexpected storm. Lashed with heavy rain and winds in excess of 100kph the city had taken a real battering. Trees were down, windows smashed, traffic lights at intersections off causing misery for weary commuters and over 150,000 homes were without power - a far cry from the late summer weather that we had left behind just shy of two weeks ago. 

Although the storm had now officially passed through the next day wasn’t much better, our moods no doubt further dampened by being back in work and ever so slightly jetted-lagged. Whilst the day was reasonably without incident, leaving the office was a real shock. Who turned out the lights? Ahh, of course, daylight savings. Whilst we had been happily travelling around Australia, New Zealand had taken the time-honoured step of taking an hour off the clocks and in doing so, plunged the city into near darkness for the commute home. At least the farmers in Scotland will be happy.

Throughout my journey home, people scurried from bus shelter to shops, their coats wrapped tightly against the still present wind and bouts of rain. Shop frontages reflected hazily in puddles of water on the pavement, enticing commuters into their premises to buy that last minute bargain. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was mid-April, one could be easily tricked into thinking we were on the approach to Christmas!

It has to be noted, however, that this weather is unseasonably cold due to a southerly wind bringing cold air up from the Antarctic but knowing that didn’t make it any warmer. Equally, whilst temperatures in Auckland struggled to stay above 15 degrees yesterday, there were part of the South Island that were enjoying their first bout of snow. Again, knowing that didn’t make it any warmer for us Aucklanders. 

Stepping off the plane yesterday really does feel like we stepped into another world. The modern-day equivalent of stepping through a wardrobe into Narnia. Thankfully it isn’t expected to last and in a few days the fast moving system will have cleared and temperatures will be returned to their seasonal levels, daily highs of 20 degrees with evening lows around 15, so it’s not quite time to put away the shorts just yet.  Frankly it couldn’t come soon enough. In the meantime, I’ve got photographs from The Gold Coast to keep me warm....well those and a fleece jumper and woolly socks!

The Gold Coast

If I was ever wondering what a Sim City city would feel like in real life then I couldn’t have come to a better place than the Gold Coast in Australia. Although that is not why we came to the Southern East of Queensland - we came here to watch some of the Commonwealth Games - it was certainly a fantastic opportunity to see how a purposely built city would look and feel. Kind of like Milton Keynes but with sunshine.

Firstly, everything is spookily modern and easily accessible. The newly constructed tram whizzes up and down the coast whilst buses fill in the gaps that the tram doesn’t serve. Cycleways line the boulevards and offer an ideal way to get around the short distances from amenities. Tall high rise buildings line the coast like modern sculptures, as if in worship to the seemingly ever present sun. Looking out towards the city and the many towering residential appartments, it’s hard to believe that this area was once favoured as a secluded holiday destination and has only recently boomed, well since 1875 anyway. With bars, restaurants, casinos, amusement parks and other resort paraphernalia its hard to imagine a more less-tranquil place. If you catch my drift.

Thankfully, and through good luck rather than good management, we chose the more secluded part of the city in which to base ourselves for the few days that we were here. Perched high up on the 14th Floor of a resort complex it offered an almost bird’s-eye view of the city and the hustle and bustle below. Add to that a (partial) view of the sea it was the perfect spot to retreat from the noise. And to see how the city-planners had mapped out the city. 

If this all sounds rather negative, it’s not meant to be. It’s just that as Europeans, being brought up on history and culture, The Gold Coast couldn’t seem further from home. It would be a great place to spend a week with kids if the sea and sunshine were you’re thing. Equally, one could imagine retiring here for the perfect climate and convenience of amenities. And, despite this not being our kind of place, as a work colleague warned beforehand, we have a great time. Our days soon settled into a pattern; early morning strolls along the beach as waves crashed onto the shore or leisurely runs along the coast, a dip in the pool to cool off, followed by breakfast from our crow’s nest of an apartment. An early lunch at the local beachfront cafe followed by a snooze before finally getting ready and heading off to the Commonwealth Games. With that kind of itinerary, one could easily see why living here would be ideal. Just don’t expect to have easy access to any culture or history. And if that comes across as though I’m a pompous-Pom then I apologise, but would like to add that just as the sun, sand and sea are part of some people’s upbringing, then culture and history are part of mine. That doesn’t make it right or superior just different.

As for the games? Well as far as the home nations go, and I’m looking at you England particularly, it hasn’t been good. It’s not that we’ve let our Australian cousins take the majority of the medals, although that does sting a lot, we just didn’t seem to turn up. There were some outstanding performances but few and far between. This was only ever a side holiday for us, a quick getaway if you like, but for others getting to the games from the northern hemisphere comes at a great cost, financially and in time. And to not turn up is not good enough frankly. But that’s the age of media-driven sport I suppose. The pride of representing your country doesn’t have the attraction it once did when Olympic sponsorship is dangled as a carrot. 

Back in the really world, as I look down on the perfect Sim-City-made-real city, I start to wonder. Surely the tram would’ve been better laid along the coast rather than a few blocks inland? Maybe the cinema would’ve been better on the main land rather than on a linked island? How about a ferry service or a bridge across that harbour? Hhmmm. Give me a mouse and I’ll soon have it sorted. Sure there might be some disgruntled residents whilst I make the adjustments but they’ll get over it. Well they do in the game and I’m sure that this would be no different!

Way Out West

If Michelle Shocked had happened upon Western Australia prior to penning her popular ode to Alaska, she may very well have written about letters being returned to Kalbarri rather than the titular Anchorage. Western Australia, just as it is with its US counterpart, is the largest state in the union. Or more accurately, the largest Ferderated State in the Commonwealth of Australia. And at a smidge over 2.5 million square kilometres it not surprising that it’s by far the largest, covering nearly a third of the continent’s land mass. But that’s ok, with a population of a little over 2.3m there’s a lot of it to go around.

Of all of the interesting facts about this place, the sparcity became very apparent when we set off from Perth and headed up to our holiday destination in Kalbarri. It wasn’t the lack of other vehicles that really hammered this home, or the fact that there were very few signs of human habitation during the 500km trip. Instead it was the roadside signs warning drivers about the lack of water and offering advice on how much one should be carrying in order to travel through the state safely. Now you don’t get that in North Yorkshire. And why would you? North Yorkshire, the largest county in England, has an area of a little over 8,600 square kilometres and has a population of 1.2m. If one could pick up North Yorkshire, and I’m sure there are plenty around that wish it were possible, and drop it into Western Australia one could do that 292 times and still have room left over for Lancashire.

So with less than the specified amount of water on board, but plenty of beer and wine, we set off north towards Kalbarri. Making a few stops on the way for sightseeing and that great British tradition of second breakfast, meant that we couldn’t make the entire drive in a single day. Well, not if we wanted to only drive in daylight hours anyway. Yes, I realise that the car did have headlights but judging by the dead kangaroos on the roadside, travelling at night is not for the faint hearted. Well not if you happen to be driving the equivalent of a motorised skateboard. The car we chose for our journey may have been fine in downtown Perth, but looked decidedly weenie compared to the rest of the vehicles on the road. These looked they had just stepped out of a Mad Max film; covered in red dust, piled high with outdoor equipment and with huge radio antennae that look like they could make contact with outer space. Which is probably just as well because if they had been anywhere other than the coastal highway then survival comes at a heavy cost. Literally. So alongside these, and the huge road-trains that service the minining industry in this part of the world, our Hyundai i30 looked puny and we were pretty sure that if we came into accidental contact with a ‘roo then we would come off decidedly worse. So a night-time stopover it was. 

Tired, sweaty and a little dusty, we pulled off the main road into Cervantes. “Cervantes,” the guidebook boasted, “is a delightful coastal town with stunning beaches and grand vistas.” Well it was on the coast. And it did have fabulous beaches. But that is as far as our agreement with the guidebook went. More accurately, and I am being charitable here, the guidebook should’ve read “Cervantes is a windy hole of a town with sandy beaches that spend the entire time trying to enter any open orifice. The views are spectacular, or at least they would be if you could see them through the sandstorm.” Maybe we arrived at a bad time. Or maybe we were just tired and needed some comfort. Either way, Cervantes didn’t help. After an astonishingly good meal in the local tavern, we returned to bed and were back on the road again at first light. 

Pretty soon there was a decent amount of distance between us and Cervantes and with the open road in front of us, we covered the distance with remarkable ease. Having absolutely no traffic on the road, and not a single set of traffic lights, junctions or for that matter bends between us and our destination we arrived into Kalbarri in next-to-no-time. Well, okay nearly five hours but with a place this big that’s the equivalent of “just popping to the shops”.

Kalbarri is an entirely different proposition to Cervantes. Admittedly they do share one attribute; they are on the coast. But that is the only similarity. Where Cervantes appeared god-forsaken, Kalbarri is a thriving beach community with shops, restaurants, a tourist information centre, playgrounds and other community paraphernalia. With so much going on, it’s easy to forget that you’re hours from anywhere; surrounded by the Indian Ocean on one side and a semi-arid dessert on the other. How the Indian restaurant managed to serve up such fresh and delicious meals is one of the wonders of the modern world. 

Our one and regrettably only full day in Kalbarri has been jam packed. It started by watching pelicans being fed on the local reserve, segued into a wilderness walk to a local look-out (view point) closely followed by a dip in the pool, a short nap, snorkelling in the aforementioned Indian Ocean and we’re soon to set off to witness another spectacular sunset. Something that 90% of Australia doesn’t get to see. Just today we’ve seen pelicans, kangaroos (living ones!), a huge nameless lizard that wandered across our path, parakeets, and coral fish. 

It’s been so good, that we wish we could wake tomorrow morning and do it all again. Instead, we’re taking the short drive back to Perth, only this time with plenty of water. There’ll be plenty of stops on the way and who knows, there may be even time for a second breakfast somewhere down the trail. But not in Cervantes that’s for sure!

Daylight Robbery

Ok, so now I’m back from my swin/spa/sauna extravaganza I can tell you about my day.

For those that have been paying attention, we abandoned our planned three day hike and instead holed up in a four star hotel to enjoy the best that Queenstown had to offer. At least it was supposed to be relaxing, well according to the brochure that is. But us being us, we had other ideas. What is the point, after all, of being in Queenstown if you’re not going to get out there and see what there is to see? So, inevitably, we found ourselves getting kitted up at 8:00am (which is much later than typical for us in case you were wondering) and heading off down the road towards the trail head. 

Now at this point I feel that I should point out that we hadn’t had our usual pre-hike breakfast. We would’ve normall enjoyed a breakfast of porridge but out hastily organsised hotel room didn’t have the equipment needed to prepare a batch of steaming gloopy goodness. Instead we resorted to cold cereal served up in a hotel room mug, washed down with tea and the left-overs of last night’s chocolate. Well it was either that or pay the extortionate price for a bacon butty in the hotel restaurant. Not happening!

It was a lovely day for a walk - the sky was relatively clear, the temperature was gentle and the humidity was non-Auckland like. Plus, there was not a soul around despite it being the last weekend of summer, or the first of Autumn depending upon your disposition. If there was any doubt that this was the last hurrah for the summer season, there was a slight crispness to the air and selected trees were signalling the arrival of the cooler season as pockets of golden reds and hues of deep brown interrupted the otherwise still green canopy.

The objective for today was the peak of Ben Lomond. Despite the disorientating name, Ben Lomond is a New Zealand classic was named after Ben Lomond in Scotland by the early shepherd Duncan McAusland. The summit lies approximately 4 km northwest of the town centre, and reaches a height of 1,748 metres, over 750m taller than its northern namesake. Being only a 7km hike from the centre of Queenstown, it is one of those rare New Zealand mountains that is with easy reach within a day. Obviously ‘easy’ is an subjective term as it is a constant uphill hike from the lake level. Actually that’s not entirely true, there is a brief period of respite once you reach the saddle but it’s short-lived and pretty soon you the path kicks upwards towards the summit.

Unfortunately today, despite the early clear skies and sunshine, the weather had closed in as we climbed the last kilometre to the top. Not a complete white out but only occasional glimpses of Lake Wakatipu could be seen as banks of cloud swirled around the peak. The curse of the hill walker I suppose - I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve set off towards a summit in cloudless skies only to find myself swatted in fog with a few hundred metres of the top. Then, just to add insult to injury, it’s not unusual for the blanket to lift once were off the hill. Yes Skiddaw! I’m looking at you!. Anyway, the arrival of scattered clouds hadn’t put people off making the push to the summit and as the last corner was rounded and final boulder negotiated, a small group came slowing into view. I recognised the grounds actions immediately; they were looking for the best spot to take the celebratory photograph and decidng which was the least windy spot to have lunch. 

It wasn’t just people that had decided to perch on the summit. As well as ten or some humans, and inquisitive Kea had decided to take a look around and see what was on offer. 

The Kea in its natural environment is an impressive sight as tese endangered birds are about the size of a small cat with dark green plumage and the occasional flashes of red as they flap their wings. And they are not shy, not in the slightest. In fact, this particual Kea had already spotted a potential source of food and was making advances towards the part open backpack of a young woman.

“Oh wow! They are so cute!,” she exclaimed to her friend and started to fumble in her pocket for presumably her camera phone.

“Watch them,” I advised before helpfully adding, “they’re sneaky!”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth when there was a shriek from the young woman, “Hey! That’s my lunch”

Right on cue, the not-so-cute-now Kea had prized open the rest of the backpack and picked up a silver foil parcel in its beak. The woman made a dash to grab it back but it was too late. The Kea flapped to the rock ledge and began dismantling the wrapper to see what spoils he had managed to grab for himself. A tuna and sweet corn sandwich as we were soon to find out. 

The precision with which the bird opened the parcel was impressive. What was even more impressive was the way in which it laid out the ingredients into groups; the bread on one side, tuna in the centre and the sweet corn off to the right. Well I thought it was impressive. The woman who was going to have to contemplate walking back down on an empty stomach had other feelings. Her walking companion tried to save the day and threw a piece of her banana towards the delighted bird, presumably as a decoy whilst her friend tried to retrieve what was left of her lunch. Which was not a lot by this point. Anyway, it didn’t work - the Kea are far too intelligent for human tricks like that. Fleet of feather, the bird hopped to one side, grabbed the banana and threw it towards his pile of food. He had just addded dessert to his already sumptuous meal.

“I think that bird is also going to have to walk down,” remarked another summit companion, “not sure he’ll be able to take off after eating all that food!”

Even an attempted poke at the pile of food with a walking pole wasn’t enought to deter the bird. All that accomplished was to retrieve the aluminium foil and what crumbs were still attached to the wrapper. 

It was either pity or the concern for a fellow hiker that prompted others to offer food from their now firmly closed backpacks. There was no way the mountain parrot was going to make a fool out of them. Well not today anyway!

Me? I sat with my back to the mountain top survey marker and finished the rest of my ham and cheese sandwich, all the while keeping a beady eye on out feathered friend. Never turn your back on a Kea, especially when there is food to be had. Although I’d only been in New Zealand a relatively short amount of time, and hadn’t spent that long in the mountains, I knew enough to be wary of the cheeky bleeders. I had already seen, a year or so previously, footage of a group of Keas remove the rubber from car windscreen wipers, remove aerials and work together to get access to supposedly fastened wheelie bins. Grabbing a sandwich from a part-open bag was child’s play in comparison. 

The ease and speed with which the bird got his morning snack was impressive but did make me wonder how on earth they were endangered. Certainly, on the evidence this morning, not due to the lack of food so one can only assume it’s from a loss of habitat as human activity expands into what was once wilderness. And with those thoughts in my head, I started the slow decent back to Queenstown. Happy to have made it to the top of Ben Lomond but equally happy to have been able to eat my lunch without it being lost to a more cunning and clever foe. 

Within a couple of hours we were once again in our favourite lakeside bar and reflecting on a great day in the mountains and marvelling at the ingenuity of nature. Well elements of it anyway!

“What would you like to drink?,” Sarah asked.

“A pint of Mischevious Kea of course!” came the reply.

A Change of Plan

Thank goodness we’re adaptable, go-with-the-flow kind of people. You see, as I type this from the balcony of the hotel, overlooking Lake Wakatipu whilst watching the steamer ship Earnslaw slowly make her way across the water, I know that this wasn’t the weekend that we were supposed to have. It couldn’t have been more different.

We were, at this precise moment, supposed to be arriving at a mountain hut, somewhere along the Routeburn track, looking forward to shelter and a rehydrated meal of some description. Not that it would’ve mattered which rehydrated meal as they all taste pretty similar and are eaten not for their culinary delights but instead for pure survival. Carbs in = energy out. It was not to be, and instead of reconsituted food and a communal hut, we’re going to have to put up with chilled wine and cheese on the balcony before heading to the restaurant to see what’s on offer. Maybe then a dip in the pool whilst the sun sets before retiring to a soft queen sized bed with clean white cotton sheets. It was a tough decision, and one that we agonised over for several minutes, maybe as long as five. Could’ve even been ten. 

Way back in October last year we booked ourselves onto the Routeburn Track, one of New Zealand’s Great Walks, and were anticipating three days walking in the mountains in Fjordland. It was going to be spectacular; clean mountain air, spectacular scenery and a chance to switch off all devices and leave the hustle and bustle of modern life behind. Well on that we’d have no choice as the chance of a mobile phone signal out in the remote hills of the South Island is just about the same as England have of winning a penalty shootout, or hell freezing over if you’re not into sport analogies. 

We’d spent the previous weekend packing for the trip, agonising over choices so that week took the essentials whilst ensuring that the weight of our rucksacks didn’t top 10kg. With the responsibilities literally on your own shoulders, was it really worth the extra energy to carry a spare cardigan and a pair of slippers at the expense of the first aid kit?  Hhhhmmmm. We’re two pairs of undies really necessary for a three day trip? Surely one would do if I adopted the back-front-inside-out routine. Finally, with every nook and cranny of our hulking packs used, we could declare that we were ready for the trip. Anyway, with a full four days in work still to go, there’d be time for any late changes before jumping on the Air New Zealand flight to Queenstown.

It’s fair to say that the latter part of the New Zealand summer has been a bit..well....damp. The best way to describe it is to say it was tropical island like, only not in a good way. Very hot, wet and with a humidity that makes you sweaty before you’ve even left the house. Nowhere had escaped the dampness, not even the South Island and that was before Cyclone Gita came through. As the week progressed, the forecast for the coming weekend deteriorated with gale force winds and rain expected for a significant portion of the three day trek. A decision had to be made.....

At this point, I feel the need to note that we are not fair weather hikers. Far from it. We have spent many a day deep surrounded by mountain clouds, lost in thought with only the hammering of rain on our waterproof hoods for company. You can’t hike in Cumbria and not expect to spend most of the time wet. But those days spent in less-than-ideal conditions were suffered because of the promise of a warm shower, a drying room and a cold beer to raise our spirits. Besides there was always the thought that maybe tomorrow would be better! But in the back country of the New Zealand southern alps there is no such thing as home comforts.  The reward for a long day spent in rain and wind was the promise of another day spent in rain and wind, only this time with damp clothing from the day before and a half eaten rehydrated meal in the side pocket of your rucksack for company. 

Did we really want to spend all that time in the mountains and not actually see any mountains? Probably not. Was there really any point in wandering each day slowly towards the next hut in the knowledge that there was no warm water and just a hard bench to sit on? I don’t think so. Was it time to admit defeat and change our plans. Hell yes! So with only a few hours to go before we were committed to the trip, we organised different accommodation, cancelled what bookings we could and unpacked and repacked our backpacks. The dried food could definitely be left behind, as could the power banks, storm shelter, spare hats, gloves and playing cards. Definitely more room now for that extra underwear, maybe a change of socks and hey, how about that cardigan! 

So that is how we find ourselves in this luxurious hotel room on the edge of Lake Wakatipu, sipping chilled Sauvignon Blanc whilst we wonder what we’d be doing if we hadn’t backed out. I’d like to think that we’d be wishing we had, but knowing us we’d have been absolutely fine and making the best of it. I am wondering, as I sit here typing this, whether we’d been a little hasty. There are some clouds in the sky but the breeze is gentle and the rain that was forecast hasn’t yet materialised. There’s even sunlight illuminating the mountain opposite our balcony. But that’s here. Over in the mountains it could be a lot different. Honestly!

I know the younger me wouldn’t have cared, he’d have been very happy being soaking wet and almost looking forward to hunkering down for the night and gorging on a packet of tasteless food, all the while laughing about it with his mates. It would’ve been an adventure, an experience and something that our peers definitely wouldn’t have been doing. Or likely ever do. And that would’ve made it worthwhile. This was the youngster after all that spent the night on a small island in the middle of a lake wrapped in a bin bag because.....well I forget. Probably for no other reason than why the hell not. Maybe it’s because I’ve been there and done that, that I need more reward for discomfort. Or is it simply that spare time is much more precious when you have to work hard during the week to earn it? 

Oh blimey, listen to me go on. The mountains aren’t going anywhere anytime soon and there will be other opportunities head for the hills, leave behind the stresses of modern life and abandon personal hygiene routines. For now I’ll enjoy sitting here and thank my lucky stars for being able to do this; just be here, in this space. It might not be what we set out to do, but if you’re able to change plans then, whaddya know, things will always go to plan! Maybe a day spent idly wasting time when we should’ve been hiking in the hills is a missed opportunity. But what the heck, I’ll raise a glass to the wise words of John Lennon and others and say “Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time!”