Country comes to town

I love three-day weekends. All weekends should be three-day weekends, I reckon. Unless they're four-day weekends, because that's even better. The week just gone was Canterbury Cup and Show week. It's a week full of important horse-racing and trotting race days that are traditionally surrounded by posh frocks and drinking heavily in the scorching sun, which overlaps the National A&P Show in the second half of the week. And then Friday is the provincial anniversary day for Canterbury which means we get a day off. Hence the three-day weekend.

And it's been a busy one. Joanne's not been to the A&P show before (I went last year with work) so I thought it might be nice to take her along on Friday. It gets pretty busy there on the Friday (the day the townies all go - whereas Wednesday and Thursday tend to be the business days when farmers mostly go) so we went along in the morning. We're glad we did too. It got mental around lunchtime. Absolutely heaving. Joanne almost couldn't make it to the strawberries and icecream stall it was that busy. You'll be pleased to hear that she fought her way over though and a potential fruit-and-frozen-dairy-combo catastrophe was averted.

There really is loads that goes on there. As well as the trade tents and carnival rides and food and farming machinery, there are animal competitions (biggest bull; curliest-horned ram; wooliest alpaca etc etc), axemen competitions, show-jumping, stunt horse-riding, sheepdog trials and even souped-up V8 tractor pulls. Dragstar tractors. I was really sorry I missed that. Oh, and OpShop played too.

To be honest, my first thought on seeing the huge bulls at the show was not to go and pat them for a photo opportunity as one Asian kid did. My first thought was also not to fulfill a desire to climb aboard and ride them. No-one at the show was silly enough to do this, at least I didn't witness anyone silly enough. This was saved for Saturday night and the International Rodeo that came to town. I've not been to a rodeo before. Rodeo-related opportunities in Grimsby, Coventry or London save a mechanical bull in the back room of a pub or at a Uni end-of-year ball are quite limited. It seemed like something to be able to tick off.

Arriving at the Westpac Arena yesterday evening the country had definitely come to town. Bus loads of folk adorned in check shirts, cowboy hats, denim and jeans spilled into the venue. You definitely got the feeling that many of them weren't dressed up. I was really looking forward to the whole event while was not so keen. I think she was just humouring me and was more keen to spend an evening with Ruth & Al who we were going along with. In the end though, I think she enjoyed it too, although she won't admit as much ;)

It really was quite a spectacle. It was quite Americanised, unsuprisingly, and Joanne compared it to a WWE event (where only half the competitors realise it's scripted!) but you really had to admire the skills and the courage (or stupidity) of these cowboys. There was bare-back bronc riding, saddled bronc riding and bull-riding for the men, and barrel-racing for the ladies. In the first two of these the cowboys are marked for technique and leg movements in time with the horse's bucking, or something. In the bull-riding you're not expected to display as much finesse and just holding on for eight seconds qualifies you for a score. Bull-riding. What a mental idea. Can you imagine the look on the rest of the cowboys' faces when, sitting round the campfire one night, one bored (and slightly mental) cowboy suggested they might all like to sit on the back of one of those bulls tomorrow and see who could hang on the longest.

In domestic matters, we finally bought a table and chairs set for the garden on Friday and I finally, finally put our barbeque together. If only the nor-wester would stop blowing we could actually make use of the garden. I still can't get used to a very strong wind with temperatures in the high twenties.

Completely out of my comfort zone

Last week I got to travel with work a bit again. Around this time of year, around the country, we organise lots of shareholder meetings where the farmers who are shareholders can come for a feed and a presentation from the CEO and the chairman about how the co-operative is going, what's happening in the global market, how the last year went and plans for going forward. Kind of a state of the union address. It is felt that us in the marketing department at head office (which I kind of am, as well as being kind of not) should go along to one of these shareholder meetings each each year to meet the farmers and see what goes on and stuff. This year I chose Oamaru.


Oamaru is about 3 hours south of Christchurch and is famous, at least in post-European settlement times, for its many heavily-carved and ornate limestone buildings. There's also a penguin colony just near the town but I didn't get time to go and check out the little fellas. I did get an hour or so of tourist-time though and I took the opportunity to head about 25 minutes south on State Highway 1 to see the Moeraki Boulders.

The boulders are mostly spherical, large stone boulders which lie partly submerged along a beach. Totally out of place, there are all sorts of weird and wonderful tales about how they got there. Of course there are the geological explanations but I think I prefer the one told to me by a farmer called Brod a few hours later over dinner at the shareholders meeting. His idea, completely without evidence, is that a Chinese junk, pre-European settlers, was wrecked on the coast at Moeraki and the boulders were the ship's ballast rocks that split into the sea.


The weekend just gone was definitely memorable. Joanne and I along with three other couples from church (Chris & Jacqui, Mark & Hannah and Dan & Katherine) went on a tramping weekend. To clarify, a tramping weekend is a walking weekend, rather than one spent hunting hobos. The plan was to drive about three hours or so north west of Christchurch, past Hanmer where we were last weekend to a little spot called Marble Hill, between Springs Junction and Maruia Springs. We'd then leave the cars and wander off into the woods to a little DOC hut on the edge of Lake Daniells. Which we did.

We were led to believe it was going to be an easy walk in, about 9km, about two or three hours or so, and for the first half this was true. But then it got a bit swampy and progress slowed. Then it got really muddy and progress definitely slowed.


But, after about about two and a half hours and a couple of scroggin stops we arrived at the hut, at the lake. And what a beautiful spot it was. A still lake reflecting the wooded mountains that surrounded it. Words cannot describe it.

I think it was shortly after arriving at the hut, while I sat dangling my feet in the icy cool water below the pontoon, that reality hit home. Here we were, in the middle of the wilderness, in a little wooden hut with no electricity. The closest I came to camping as a kid was spending a night in a tent in Mark or Darren's gardens where we could run indoors if the weather got too inclement. And I've not camped since then really. I am not sure three nights at Reading festival count, especially since we went back to Kate's mum's every morning for a shower and a fry-up. So, the bottom line is that this was all kind of new to me. I was just grateful that the others we were with were a lot more seasoned than me, the tramping virgin.

They took care of the food, knocking up a really substantial meal of couscous with salami, mushrooms and rehydrated veg in a tomato sauce over the little gas burners they'd taken along. These huts, you see, and the one we stayed in was supposedly a nice new one, don't have anything really. There are bunks, cold running water and a roof. And that's pretty much it. You take everything you need in, and everything you need back out again. Some people do four or five day tramps walking from hut to hut to hut, carrying all their food and clothing for five days with them. So one night in the comparative luxury of the Lake Daniells hut was nothing really. But it didn't feel like it to me. It was meant to be quite a popular track and hut, quite busy most weekends we'd heard, but we had the place to ourselves. Perhaps it was because it was election weekend. It was just so peaceful. The lake was so still and so inviting, but so cold following the unseasonal snowfall last week. I definitely wasn't brave enough to join Dan and Chris in the lake, fishing, up to their waists. Especially after I'd seen a gigantic eel swim on by.

And almost as soon as it began it was over. We woke Sunday morning, had a bit of brekkie, packed up, cleaned the hut of what mess we'd made, and headed back to the cars. A whole weekend in the bush and I only got bitten once by sandflies. Maybe there is something in the marmite myth after all.

On the way back to town we tret outselves. We stopped at Maruia Springs and had a good long soak in the thermal pools. Just what was needed. Even if the 'medicinal' black algae floating in the water looked like a cross between Harry Potter's dementers and the Nazgul. There truly is nothing like sitting neck-deep in a hot natural spring, surrounded by tree-covered misty mountains. I most heartily recommend it.

All in all, the weekend was brilliant. We got to know the others a whole lot better, in beautiful surroundings, and it's not a bad thing to be pushed beyond your comfort zone once in a while.

Japanese macaques

One of Joanne's colleagues, Kirsten, had a birthday last week and to celebrate she booked two holiday homes up in Hanmer and invited loads of people along. We were some of those people. In total I think there were about 16 or so of us between the two houses.

The weekend began on Friday evening with a nice tapas meal in a little cafe place in Hanmer and then continued with a brunch of pancakes on Saturday morning. A couple of hours spent relaxing in the thermal pools followed. There's something quite enjoyable about sitting in warm water with only your head exposed while cold winds blow around you and raindrops splash down onto the pool.

The weather cleared a bit in the afternoon and while Jo went back for a nanna-nap and the others lazed around a bit I decided to take a ride out into the country with my camera to see what I could find. I wish a photo could do justice of the scale of the Nuzziland countryside. I really don't think you can fully understand just how BIG everything is unless you're stood there, soaking it all up. It's just on a different scale. I remember when my dad was here earlier this year and was about to go on his South Island bus tour that I told him about this, that however many postcards you see, or shots on TV or shots in books, unless you're actually there, you cannot understand the sheer hugeness of it all. Once he stood at the foot of Mount Cook and floated along the Sounds he understood. Everytime I head out into the Nuzziland countryside I understand again.

Round every corner was a new photo to take, a new angle, a new way or seeing things lit. But driving along means you're limited to when you can stop. Especially when there is a police car behind you, as I had for a few kms yesterday! But when I could stop I did, and I headed along a few side roads to see what I could find too and got a few interesting photos, I think. I need time to look over them some more to work out if everything's worth keeping.

In the evening yesterday we all headed over to the other house for a big barbecue. It was one of those barbecues where there's way too much food and way too much alcohol. It was all going well until two of the women decided to take a kayak they found in the garage of the house down to the pond at the bottom of the garden. Bear in mind it was around 10-ish at that time. And they'd been drinking since way earlier. How no-one ended up going for a swim I could not tell you.

This morning began with a spot of brunch after cleaning the house up. We all headed into the town to a cafe for some food. I was sorely tempted by eggs benedict but the Highland FLing could my eye in the end. And what a good choice it was. A healthly bowlful of porridge sitting over a rhubarb compote, topped with bananas, brown sugar given the blowtorch treatment and a dollop of cream. That is how to eat porridge.

Next up, while some of the ladies went for a wander round the shops, the rest of us headed to the crazy golf course, or mini-golf as they call it here. The weather today was pretty spectacular and I don't think I've played crazy golf in a more spectacular setting - beautiful blue skies and snow-capped mountains in the background. It even beats that one in Great Yarmouth I played on during the boating holiday with the lads. But unlike Great Yarmouth, I didn't win. I didn't come second or third. I was definitely last. Well and truly last. It was embarrassing. At least I could claim a Holt victory though, supporting my wife's magnificent performance, ignoring the fact that she put me to shame.