Surprisingly sunny Nelson

In the midst of a month of rain, rain, storms and more rain, I half expected the cheap, Saturday morning ‘grab a seat’ deal with Air New Zealand to be cancelled. It wouldn’t have been the first time in these short winter months that airports down country had been closed ‘due to adverse weather conditions.’

Plans for a trip over the hill to a bach (kiwi name for a beach house) in the idyll of Golden Bay seemed less appealing as the date of departure approached. I remember the road from a trip back in the summer of ‘98. Steep, winding, spectacular and sick inducing for poor travelers in the back of four wheel drive vehicles! With slips, wash outs and power cuts all over the country in the wet wet wet winter of ‘08, the prospects did not look good. An anxious text to mein host on Friday returned welcome news the trip had been canned. All I had to do was get to Nelson and stay there til Monday morning.

It was too dark and too early to really notice what the weather was doing in Auckland. I think it was raining. I have ceased to notice unless I am out in it. It’s so unremarkable these days. Had to drive to the airport, as public transport doesn’t kick in til later. It’s the only time of day there is a clear run, an easy 30 minutes before the city wakes upinstead of an hour or more. I do recall a patch of blue between gray cloud as the wee twin prop plane buzzed up over the Manukau Harbour and headed south down the sweeping black sand bays and ragged natural harbours of the west coast.

Coming in to land a bit more than an hour later, the sun is beginning to warm the boulder bank saved over a few million years as natural shelter for the harbour.


The sun? Yes, that golden globe in the sky that shines for more hours on this small area of anomaly at the top of the South Island than anywhere else in the country. Amazing considering how close it is to wet windy Wellington, which is just across the straight. The top (and other parts) of the S Island ranks high on my personal 'wonders of the world' list. The Marlborough and Pelorus Sounds are yachties’ heaven and the sight of a hundred inlets edged by green sculptured hills is part of mine.

The air is chilled, fresh, like the best crisp winter morning in Scotland.

The day unfolds at a suitably leisurely pace. The market is another treat: real cottage industry crafts instead of a virulent rash of mass produced imported junk, unique creative products and super-size fresh veggies that boast of the fabulous micro-climate. Coffee on the terrace in a recreated 1920s village on the edge of a park with pairs of cheeky ducks to clean up discarded crumbs of apple and walnut muffin. A walk along miles of gray sand beach littered with trees blown down in the storm, giant horse mussel and tua tua shells. Hundreds of sooty and piebald oyster catchers, seagulls and very few people. A glass of wine at the Smokehouse at nearby Mapua, where a beautiful white native heron with exquisite fluffy wing feathers cracks open the romantic vision - and the laughter - by crapping on a table!



After dark in a cosy eco-built house, there is venison killed by our host, red wine, good conversation and of course, talk of the rugby. The All Blacks are not doing so well these days. A big game in a muddy field in Auckland tonight could deal a final blow to the national psyche. But it does not. They beat Australia, though the verb used is generally stronger because of who the opponent is. Slaughter, thrash, mash… the country feels good about itself again. Funny how a game affects. A great substitute for war!

The next morning heads are clear. After a respectable period of lazing in bed, we head down to the marina to meet Rebecca 11. She motors us out to the lighthouse, which turns out to be built in Bath, England, not Scotland as was believed. Still a long way to get shipped out and reconstructed. Its a beautiful clear morning out in the harbour, admiring the view from the top, I know this is paradise indeed.




By the time we return, a dozen or more yachts are racing. Outside the harbour mouth, they raise spinnakers in a spectrum of vivid colours and fly alongside the boulder bank. Standing on the inside, the sound of the sea shifting and resiting stones of not insignificant size is magic.
Small black shapes breaking the regular surface of the water tell us the resident seals are about, sunbathing, or whatever it is they do floating with a limb held out of the water. They are not shy, playful, surprisingly graceful and don’t take off when we circle them for the sixth time.


An oil rig parked up at the side reminds me of home. The sea that this one works off Taranaki on the west coast of the N Island is perhaps kinder than the North Sea and Norwegian fields.


Coming back to berth, the biggest fishing fleet in either the island, the country or maybe the southern hemisphere (does it matter?) is tied up in alongside.


The rest of the day is passed in conversation with friends, walking back up the steep road to the views from the front window and finishing the left over wine and veggies from the market. Then it’s Monday morning and a plane to work instead of a ferry. The change is welcome. The weekend has grounded me back where work, or maybe all of life, had taken me close to an edge. Friends are treasures and escape from the city a prize.