The Collection

An odd thing happened last year. No, not that. Another odd thing. For the first time since before the heyday of the CD, vinyl record sales overtook those of CDs. And for the life of me, I can’t understand why.

I get that physical sales have been in decline since the rise of streaming, but vinyl? I mean come on. It’s so like 1930s. Okay, I admit that the artwork on the sleeve is so much easier to read that on a CD booklet. It’s just bigger so there’s no getting around that. 

And of course the scene for Shaun of the Dead would’ve so much less effective had the protagonists only had CDs to fling at the oncoming zombie hoard. It could be worse though. What about cassettes? They would’ve been rubbish as an anti-dead weapon. I supposed they couldn’t unspooled some tape and used it as a trip wire. That might’ve worked. And if all else failed they could’ve flung a biro at them and asked them to sort it all out. 

At the risk of a pile on, CDs just sound better than vinyl. Always have, always will. And that, perhaps dear readers, is the real issue. Each copy of Dire Straits Brothers in Arms sounds exactly the same as it did when it rolled off the pressing plant in Germany….. and each copy sounds exactly the same. A perfect duplication of the digital recording. Vinyl, on the other hand, needs to be looked after. You can’t expect to fling it into the glove box of a car and expect it to come out again, at some point in the future, unscathed. Those clicks and pops though are part of the records character. Each one is different and, in its own way, unique. Is that why some people have reverted to the LP?

The writing on the wall for the CD was there fir all to seen once MP3 turned up. And, yes of course, I was an early adopter. I remember enthusing/boring* my colleagues with a tale of how I’d managed, over the course of an hour, to rip a Beatles track (And Your Bird Can Sing in case you were wondering) from the CD to a 3.5” floppy disk. At only 1.44MB it was the only track that I could fit on the format, and the practical application of converting a single CD to 14 floppy disks hadn’t quite sunk in, but I was converted. Or at least one track of my CD was. Albeit at a very poor quality. 

And that brings me to today, or more accurately last December. You see, when we moved to New Zealand, I decided that as my record collection was totally digitised, then I didn’t need to bother shipping my CDs. Especially as a kind family member had volunteered to stored the boxes in her garage. 

But as time wore on, I became increasingly dissatisfied with relying wholly on my digitised library. And somehow, the arrival of widespread streaming made it worse. I didn’t want every album in the world at my fingertips, and have recommendations pushed at me by an algorithm. I wanted to discover things for myself. 

The fight back would start now! We’ll actually in three months time because there was the small matter of getting my collection shipped 12,000 miles. And by shipping, I mean shipping. You know, on a boat and that. I did consider, briefly, that it might actually be more cost effective to buy them all again. And maybe it would’ve been, assuming that I could find them all. But each one is a memory. I remember where I bought it, why I decided to make the purchase, and what my initial thoughts we’re on popping the disc into the CD player and pressing play for the first time. And that, can’t be replaced.

So, once again with the help of the aforementioned family member, the boxes were packed into shipping containers and sent off to the Southern Hemisphere.

And last December they arrived. Oh my God what was I going to do with them? I hadn’t really considered the implications of housing 1,500 CDs. Hadn’t needed to before, but now here they were. What on earth was I going to do with all of these CDs? I did consider, albeit briefly, just sticking them in the garage but that kind of defeated the purpose of shipping them here in the first place. Plus it gets far too hot in there in the summer. No, they needed to be accessible but neatly stored.

From this......

The solution eluded me, and for a few months the boxes just sat there. There was only one thing for it - I was just going to have to get stuck in. Each album was removed from the box, inspected, cleaned and the database entry updated to note it had arrived....What? Yes of course I have a database of the collection. Doesn't everyone? Why? Well just because!  After just a couple of happy hours, the scale of the problem became even clearer. This was going to take up a lot of shelf space. Shelf space that we didn't have. 

As the CDs piled up, I noticed that the bulk of the stack was actually taken up by the plastic case and, if I could get rid of this, it would save an awful amount of space. I wanted to keep the album intact so I needed a way to store the disc and the booklet without the plastic case. A quick trawl on the internet and I found the solution. Plastic sleeves for the CD and accompanying material. Brilliant. Now I could ditch the horrible CD cases and replace it with a plastic sleeve, turning each album into a sort of mini-LP. 

And so, over the course of a few weeks, each CD was converted into a space saving sleeve. The finishing touch was to buy a aluminium case to house the CDs - and to put them into alphabetical order. 

.....to this

I must say that I'm rather pleased with the result. Many of the CD cases, from years of misuse, had become a little tired - scratched and cracked - but now they looked cared for and are protected. In fact, I was a little sad when I completed the transformation. The task was over. Or was it? I still had plenty of spare sleeves and some gaps in my collection. Maybe it was time to check out the second hand record shops.....

Eclipse

A walk in Auckland Domain to get some fresh air. 

All that you touch
And all that you see
All that you taste
All you feel
And all that you love
And all that you hate
All you distrust
All you save
And all that you give
And all that you deal
And all that you buy
Beg, borrow or steal
And all you create
And all you destroy
And all that you do
And all that you say
And all that you eat
And everyone you meet
And all that you slight
And everyone you fight
And all that is now
And all that is gone
And all that's to come
And everything under the sun is in tune
But the sun is eclipsed by the moon

Perfect Isolation

It is quite true that being stuck away in the corner of the globe, not that globes have corners but stick with me, is that somethings just pass you by. Whilst this can be advantageous, it also makes it difficult to keep ‘on top of things’, you know ‘have your finger on the pulse’. What exactly is worth keeping on top of, and exactly which pulse you need to get your finger on is open for debate. But it seems that these matters can be important.

That also explains how a predictable jibe about New Zealand came into common being. You know the one. If not, it goes something like “If it’s 2pm in London, what time is it in New Zealand?”. The punch-line is of course “1950” at which point the required response is to roll around on the floor in fits of laughter. But that was then.

If reports from the UK are anything to go by, the circumstances have been somewhat reversed. So here’s a new version for modern times. “If it’s 2021 in New Zealand, what time is it in London?” The response is of course “About twelve months ago!” 

For now, it seems, the UK is working on the basis that anything that New Zealand does is worth doing, but only when they get around to it. For some time now, since last May, apart from a little blip in Auckland in August, New Zealand has pretty much returned to normal. Or at least a new-normal. Bars and restaurants are open, concerts and sporting events are being held and, other than the ability to travel abroad, there are no restrictions of movement. This isn’t by accident. Sure, the relative remoteness did help initially but once the pandemic reached these shores it was quick and effective leadership that built the path to get us where we are now. 

It’s astonishing in a way, to hear the UK government is considering introducing quarantine hotels soon. Considering? Why consider? Maybe Boris Johnson doesn’t want to be seen to be taking advice from a small island nation in the Pacific? And soon? Why not tomorrow? 

But even this plan is typical of Boris Johnson’s government and is half-arsed. Firstly the compulsory period would only be 10 days - not much use against a virus that can have a 14 day incubation time. And you’ll be allowed to use public transport to get to the quarantine location. I mean WTAF?

Admittedly, New Zealand didn’t get it right straight away. There were some teething problems with the system but it all seems to be working now. I say seems, because if the robustness of a system is evidenced by results then I’ll raise a glass to the New Zealand government and say thank you! Which of course I can do because, as I mentioned before, our bars are open! Just sayin’.

To help the UK sort out it’s quarantine system, I’ve written a handy guide below and I’d appreciate it if someone could pass it on to Boris Johnson the next time they see him.

Hello Mr Johnson. We in New Zealand hear you are having a bit of trouble managing the Covid-19 virus? I know you won’t like to hear this, but you are really making a dogs breakfast of the whole thing. But don’t worry, we’re happy to give you some pointers. Actually we are a little surprised that you haven’t asked us before now. I guess better late then never, even if it is 12 months too late.

Firstly, our borders are closed to everyone. Shut, firmé or if you prefer Geschlossen, to everyone except New Zealand citizens and permanent residents. No red flag countries or air-bridges thing-a-ma-jigs. Unless you have the right to live here, you can’t come in. Exceptions are granted, such as for essential workers for our industries or if you happen to be involved in a huge Hollywood movie, but these are rare. Honestly, for someone who kept banging on about getting back control of your borders, we’re a bit confused as to why you haven’t. 

Everyone who arrives, no matter who you are, be you a movie director or an ordinary Joe, has to stay in a government ran quarantine facility, or MIQ, for at least 14 days and submit to at least two COVID tests. In fact, before even getting on a plane, you have to be booked into a quarantine facility. But don’t hold your breath, these are full and there’s a two month waiting list to get into New Zealand.

If you do manage to get a flight, and book a place in MIQ, when you land in New Zealand you are escorted to a chartered bus that will take you to the quarantine facility. What’s that? Err, no, you don’t get a choice. 

The facilities are mostly in the main cities but all are fenced off and guarded by the army. Yes the army. Not some private security firm ran by a mate of yours, who would undoubtedly be tempted to cut corners to save money. Once your inside the facility you’re there for at least 14 days. It’s a bit unfair to call these facilities when they’re actually very decent hotels. So sit tight, relax and enjoy the break and you’ll soon be out and about. It’s worth it, honestly, just don’t expect to lose any weight - apparently the food is really good. Providing you don’t test positive, you’ll be out in no time. What if you test positive? Well in that unfortunate situation you would be transferred to a high security facility.

So that’s how you run a successful quarantine system. Don’t skimp on the measures and understand that you’re in this for the long haul. 

So you see, New Zealand has done all the planning for you and you can read more about on our website here. You’re welcome. No doubt that has saved you some time so how about you do something useful? What do you mean what? Well let us tell you about Track and Trace.....

Step On

For those of you that don’t know, I’ve always been a bit of a collector… Actually, wait…. that’s not quite right. Let me try that again….

For those of you that don’t know, I’ve always been a bit obsessive. Yes, much better. This was recognised from an early age when I would happily pour my pocket money into collecting whatever thing that was my currently focus of attention; badges, stickers, key-rings, novelty rubbers. The latter of which I must hastily clarify where erasers! What the object de jour was didn't really matter. I was a collector and therefore I shall collect. To the ill informed outsider, this might look like hoarding but it was serious business. Every chance that came along, I would seek out new objects to add to my collection and then, suddenly and without warning, I would stop and move onto something else. 

The arrival of the digital age hasn’t really stopped me, and instead has instead presented even more ways to obsess over things. It is sad to think that the joy of browsing though secondhand shops for a much sought after record may has been taken away by the digitisation of music. I just can’t quite see anyone in the future getting misty-eyed about the first time they streamed an album or purchased a download. But with the increased digitisation of things, comes an abundance of data. And that, my friends, is a rich seam of obsessiveness that just has to be plundered. 

And of all of the digital data currently at my fingertips, my latest obsession has been steps. And by that I mean the act of movement and not the late 90s pop sensations. 

I fear that it is the sign of the times that counting daily steps should be a target of any kind. Isn’t that something that we should just do? But somewhere down the line, someone decided that 10,000 steps a day would be a suitable goal for modern times. And it is no less applicable in New Zealand than anywhere else in the world. 

Quite how New Zealand, with its abundance of sunshine, warm climate outdoor opportunities, became such a car-centred society is partly geographic but also because construction of the required infrastructure just hasn't kept pace with modern life. 

When we arrived, and colleagues found out that we hadn’t bought a car yet, they were all too quick to point out that we’d made a mistake by not going to a car sales yard immediately after disembarking from the airplane. Jet lagged or not. Apparently a car should’ve been a higher priority than finding accommodation. After all, you can’t drive to the beach in an apartment but you can sleep in the car.  Eventually, after about four weeks of constant reminding, we caved and bought a car. I’d be the first to admit that it was useful for helping us get around all of the viewings of rental properties and for getting emergency furniture whilst we waited for our house contents to arrive, but as time went on and we settled into our new surroundings it became used less and less.

These days, outings in our car are limited to a short trip on Saturday morning to the local parkrun. This, our only concession to a car based lifestyle, could be replaced by a bus trip or even running to the start line. But that would require us to get out of bed even earlier on a Saturday morning. Unlikely to happen anytime soon. If we were allowed a do-over, the car would’ve remained in the sales yard and we would simply hire a vehicle when there was no other option. Which is rare, especially as we live in the centre of Auckland.

So, recognising that I was probably a little unusual - hey I heard that! - I started to track how many steps I was taking and like most obsessions, it sort of crept up on me. At first it was a sort of casual interest, occasionally checking an app on my phone to see what I had done. But this didn’t last long as once I noticed that the app gave out badges for particular achievements and in doing so you were allocated points. Yes, I had suddenly found my new obsession. Digital badges for physical achievements. Nirvana! The 7-day badge was a breeze. As was the 14 day award. A month? No worries. The three month badge was obtained without any real problem and before long I was on my way to getting the final achievement - a 365 day streak. 

You would be excused for thinking that as I walk to work, clocking up the steps wouldn’t be a problem - surely my commute in itself would let me get the required number of steps? The problem is that I am only a seven minute walk from the office which is just too close - in many ways. In fact, if you’re interested, it’s 826 steps too close. So I had to devise an alternative. Instead of taking the shortest route to my place of work, I headed in the opposition direction and did loops around the local park. I was spotted by colleagues on some occasions who later queried why I was walking in the opposite direction to the office. Did I not want to be in work? There are some questions that don’t need to be answered.

As the days counted down, the goal seemed to get father from my reach, especially during the last few weeks when as the day of reckoning approached, I became convinced that I would come down with the flu or twist my ankle.

Thankfully, I never injured myself to point of incapacitation, or succumbed to a virus - apparently there was one going around - but that's not to say that there weren’t some close shaves. On those occasions, when my daily obligations didn't allow much freedom of movement, I had to resort to walking in loops around the living room in my PJs until the display on my watch ticked over to the magic number. Crazy? Perhaps. But there was a digital badge at stake.

Soon, the final day was here and before sunset I needed one final effort. It just happened to be a Saturday and with the weekly 5k run usually being competed in the morning, getting sufficient steps shouldn’t be a problem. But I wanted to make sure. I wasn’t going to fall at the last hurdle so I got out of bed extra early and went for a walk around the park. By the time I lined-up at the start of the run at 0800am I already had 6,500 steps in the bag.

Thankfully I completed the run without any problems and somewhere out on the course, I clocked up 10,000 steps for the day. I was done. 

With the year that we've all had, I was quite pleased with my achievement even if there wasn’t anything physical to show for it. But in reality there was. Okay, call me Muttley, a finishers medal would’ve been nice, but I got something much more valuable. Not only had my daily walking  helped me keep physically fit, but was also all the encouragement I needed to get out of the house, get some fresh air and unwind. Lock-down would’ve been much tougher without it.

There was one negative side effect. I couldn't stop. Even though there are no more badges to collect, I still felt compelled to clock up 10,000 steps each and every day. I had tried deliberately not getting the steps I needed, only to find myself once again late at night, doing loops around the living room. I needed to take drastic action. So, with just a few days to go before I broke the 400 day streak barrier, I deleted the app and all of the data*. It's time to move on. But before I do that, I’ll leave you with some of the statistics from the past 12 months;

Total steps taken = 6,020,567

Total distance covered = 4,695km

Average steps per day = 14,649

Average distance per day = 11km

So what now? Good question but I’m not entirely sure. Something will present itself in due course. There's a cycling challenge coming up in February so maybe that. In the meantime, I have been meaning to properly index my record collection. And I really should so something about the organisation of photographs on the computer…..

*but not before emailing myself a copy first of course! I'm not that crazy!

Field of Dreams

I know many people suggest that they wish their dreams would come true, but in this case I’m willing to make an exception.

It all started innocently enough. As we were camping, 9pm rolled around so we started to get ready to sleep. Yes I agree it’s a bit early, especially as we were at the start of a three week break, but I’m blaming the fresh sea air. Oh and the bottle and a half of wine we’d just consumed. Besides, 9pm isn’t that late when you consider that we’d been awake since 6am.

Anyway, sleep wasn’t far away and so far I’d been sleeping very soundly and getting a full eight or so hours kip. Not quite uninterrupted as this being camping, meant that my nightly visit to the loo which required a five minute walk in pyjamas and flip-flops across the field to the toilet block. Still it was worth the inconvenience to get to the conveniences because I got to stare at the blanket of stars on display. They were wonderful and so bright against the dark country sky. There’s something to be said for getting away from the bright lights of the city, even if it does mean sleeping on the floor in the middle of a field.

But I’ve digressed. 

Toilet issues taken care of, I was soon tucked back up and lulled back to sleep by the distant sound of a Morepork, New Zealand’s native owl and the distant sound of waves breaking onto the beach.

And that’s when it started. I suddenly awoke again to find myself in the centre circle of a football pitch. The ground looked pretty impressive, even if all of the seats in the stadium were empty, and despite the dark night sky floodlights lit every corner. Just as I started to wonder what it must be like to have this as your place of work, a gentleman in a tracksuit approached me and my partner. He looked exasperated and was clearly in a spot of bother. 

“I don’t know what your plans are,” he asked, “but because of a virus we can’t field a full team today so we’re wondering if you could help us out?”

“Oh, really?” I replied then added, “how so?” figuring that even if this was a dream, a cautious approach was needed.

“I’m the Manchester United coach and we are having problems assembling a team for the match today. We can only play the game if we have the required number of players and it would be a great help if you could sit in with the rest of the squad.”

He obviously saw the concerned look on my face so quickly added, “It’s okay - you probably won’t have to play. Not unless we get really desperate.”

If I was in any doubt, it was at that precise moment that I knew I was dreaming. Anyone who had seen me play football as a youngster would have realised that I was definitely not at a professional standard. That’s not to say that I didn’t like playing football, far from it, its just that I wasn’t as good as I thought I should’ve been. Admittedly, if enthusiasm was the only ingredient required, then I was your man. If it was skill you were after then I respectfully decline. 

I was so enthusiastic back then that I was instrumental in forming a team, for reasons lost to time called The Swans, and setting up a local league in which to play. Unfortunately in my eagerness to set up this new venture, I forgot to look at the practicalities. There simply wasn’t enough players to make the whole thing work, and no-one else seemed as enamoured with the idea as I did. So fixtures were somewhat haphazard and usually resulted in the same people turning up to play whatever game had been arranged. Clever player rotation between the two sides, however, ensured that the games could take place and the match fixtures completed. It did lead to some unusual situations, such as the lead scorer in the league having played for most of the teams, but it didn’t seem to bother me. The Clavering Football league was up and running, even if I was the only one who paid it any notice. 

If the coach from Manchester United ever doubted my skills, or rather lack thereof, he only had to witness my performance on warm but damp summer’s evening. 

I fancied myself of a bit of a winger, modelled in the style of Middlesbrough’s Northern Ireland maestro Terry Cochrane. I had been running up and down the wing for most of the match without much of an impact. Well I say wing. At this point I must clarify that we didn't actually have a marked out pitch or anything. We did have a big field though and that was enough for us and, depending on which way you were kicking, either recently planted trees or a pile of jumpers made up the goal posts. Quite why the council had decided to litter our playing field with trees was beyond us. It was one thing having two trees to use as goal posts but as for the others..... Still it added to the complexity of the game. Dribbling around trees as well as a static defence was good practice and there was nothing like hitting the ball on the volley only to see it hit the trunk of a tree and ricochet into the (imaginary) top corner of the goal. 

So there I was, patrolling the wing when a ball was lofted out of defence and over my head. This ball was mine. I was off like a bullet and tracking the arc of the ball, sped down the wing. All I had to do was trap it when it landed and then cut inside and with a deft flick of my left boot hit it homeward. I had it all planned out. It was a bit of a surprise then when my progress was suddenly halted and I crashed to the ground with a thump only to witness the ball land and run into touch. I had been so intent on tracking the flight of the ball that I forgot to look where I was going and had ran smack into one of the aforementioned trees. Bloody council do-gooders.

Where was I? Oh yes, back to my dream. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly Manchester United material but that obviously hadn’t deterred the chap in the tracksuit. Well he did say they were desperate. 

I was provided with some kit and me and my partner were escorted to our seats in the team dug-out. What a moment. Me sitting alongside the Manchester Untied team who, again for some unexplained reason, were dressed in a white strip and were now sponsored by Marvel. Go figure. Unfortunately there had been a little bit of an administrative error and my Dad’s name had been sellotaped to the back of my seat. Never mind, I would have strong words at half-time with a team official to get it changed.

My fellow, albeit temporary teammate, turned to me and thanked me for helping them out of a sticky situation. They really needed to fulfil this fixture and my presence ensured that the game could take place. Oh, and not to worry - it was very unlikely that my services would be needed on the pitch. My fellow teammate, whose name I didn’t catch, bared an uncanny resemblance to Chris Riggott, the former Boro defender. 

"So are you blue or red?" he asked.

"Actually neither, I'm a Boro fan," I replied.

"Oh, I'm not sure I know who's in the Boro team these days."

"Neither do I really," I admitted, "I live in New Zealand now so it's hard to keep up. We're only here for the day."

I’m pleased to report that my dream didn’t turn into a nightmare and, as promised, my services were not required so I spent a pleasant afternoon chatting to a fictional Manchester United team and their partners whilst Chris Riggott told me more about the inner workings of the team and what it was like being a professional footballer.

Unfortunately I can't recall the score in the game, or whether it was entertaining, as I was rudely awoken by the sunrise and the noise of excited birdlife. Still, it was a beautiful day and just perfect for a quick run and then a dip in the sea. Now that is the stuff of dreams!

Carry On Campervanning

There’s quite a bit to this campervan carry-on. And with that in mind, it’s quite remarkable that you’re allowed to drive off with someone else’s $80k vehicle having just watched a couple of YouTube videos. There wasn’t even a test or anything!

And that was probably a good thing, at least if the first few days were anything to go by. It wasn’t the size of the vehicle that was an issue - it did take some getting used to, especially around the streets of Auckland, but we soon got into the swing of things. Nope, it was just everything else.

Firstly there was the space, or rather the lack of it. We thought we had packed up the van cleverly with things we needed within easy reach. Shoes were tucked away at the bottom of the storage bunks, along with jackets, jumpers and other non-essential items. Similarly, food was packed into the top cupboards where we could get to it without having to rummage around.

It didn’t work. To avoid getting too relaxed, we spent the first few days playing a game we invented called Hunt for the Item. This was a hugely engaging game. The rules are simple, it starts by someone saying something like “Have you seen my trainers?” and then the hunt begins for the aforementioned item. After several minutes looking in various cupboards and cubbyholes, the contents of the van are removed onto the grass outside and the hunt continues amongst the debris. Eventually the item is found and the winner declared. The winner gets to feel smug for at least ten minutes whilst the loser gets to repack the equipment and clothing, preferably in a more orderly manner. You would think that this gave them an advantage for the next round but this is not how this game works. Inevitably, the next item is not where you thought it was, and so the whole process is repeated.

Another sport I learned to play in the early days was Things to Bang My Head On. You would think, being at the shorter end of the human spectrum, that this was going to be a challenging game. Not a bit of it. Thankfully the designers of the campervan had thought ahead and put plenty of things just at head height; cupboards, shelves, hooks and the like. Then, just as I was running out of Things to Bang My Head On, I discovered a while new seam of things lower down - handily placed to catch you unawares when you’re rummaging around the lower areas. I became particularly skilled at colliding with the underside of the table. The table was a tricky adversary in light of its unwillingness to move and to be exactly where it was the last time you banged your head on it. 

It didn’t stop inside the van either. I became an expert at this sport and found a multitude of things outside the van to demonstrate my skills. The bike rack (unused) attached to the back doors being one such item. Being able to close the door into your own head requires skill and dedication to the game. I think I peaked when I managed to lacerate the side of my head by allowing the metal flap of the campsite power socket to fall and strike me. Pure genius that will be on display for a few weeks as the scar takes time to heal.

If you saw us changing the van from day to night mode, and back again, in the first few days you would think that we were making it complicated on purpose. After all, all we had to do was place two pieces of wood to create the bed, rearrange the cushions to form the mattress and then put the bedding on top. Easy? You would think so but we spent a lot of time playing out favourite game Hunt for the Item. Where was the other pillow? Have you seen my pyjamas? We did, at least, have time to invent a new game called Bumping into Each Other. 

If a decision is ever made to resurrect the Carry On series and start with the antics of a couple in a campervan then they need to look no further - they’ve found their stars.

But that was then. Now after three days in, we’re experts. To see us in motion in the confined space is a sight to behold. Now getting ready each day we’re like a well drilled military unit. Everything in its right place and stowed away, space maximised and nothing is missing. At least we don’t think so. Honestly, it’s like a ballet watching us prepare breakfast and get ready to hit the road - more like the Morecambe and Wise sketch than Carry On Campervanning. 

With each passing day we get a little better, more organised and less inclined to bang body parts on hard objects. Not that it will stop me looking of course!

The East Cape

Ohope to Gisbourne

Sunday 1 November 2020

Over the years I’ve been told on many occasions that Auckland isn’t New Zealand and that [insert place name] is. Whilst the validity of that statement depends on where your coming from, Auckland is certainly different to most other places in New Zealand.

And that difference is more obvious in the East Cape of the North Island than anywhere we’ve visited so far. How so? 

Maybe it’s to do with geography. The East Cape is remote by most standards with no urban areas or towns. There are settlements dotted around the coast but these are small with only a few facilities. Certainly you have to want to come here otherwise you’d take a more direct route other than the winding SH35 that hugs the coast line. And it has to hug the coastline because there’s limited options for transportation inland. Coastal plateau soon gives way to precipitous, bush covered slopes. Only the foolhardy would chose to try and cut any routes through here.

The kilometres driven are certainly hard won. There’s very few straight bits of road and what road there is doesn’t get the attention it needs. But every corner reveals something new and so you press onwards.

The biggest surprise of the day was the church at Tikitiki. What and amazing place and a testament to the craftsmanship of its creators. I’ve never seen a church quite like it. The structure is definitely European but the extensively carved wooden interior is definitely Maori. It’s an amazing space and worthy of a (significant) detour.

Although we were pushed for time, we managed to squeeze in the walk from Tolaga Bay to Cook’s Cove where in 1769 Captain James Cook visited as part of his circumnavigation of New Zealand. The history is well known and somewhat controversial so I won’t go any further, other than to say he couldn’t have picked a more picturesque place to visit.

Unfortunately we have another 50km or so to go before we arrive in Gisborne where we’ll rest up before making the long trip tomorrow to Martinborough.