Sunday, 20.2.11 – Ferry to family (Wellington to Christchurch, New Zealand)

Sunday, 20.2.11 – Ferry to family (Wellington to Christchurch, New Zealand)

View from Robin and Sue's balcony

The dawn trailed its pink fingers across the sky as we drank tea on Sue and Robin’s balcony, gazing down with some relief at a calm sea. Then goodbye to Robin and the dogs, as Sue drove us to Wellington Harbour. Sad to leave them, but hopes of another family reunion in the future, destination as yet to be arranged, made it easier.

The Interislander ferry slipped elegantly out of the immense Wellington Harbour basin, past the islands and the airport. There are advantages in living in an earthquake zone, according to a story we heard. Wellington needed an airport. The land all slopes down steeply into the sea, so where to put it? Then earthquake, and behold! Up pops a nice, level bit of land, just outside the city. Hey presto, problem solved.

It takes three hours to sail between the islands, but only about an hour is in the open sea. The last section

Sailing towards Picton

cruises an amazing tangle of sea lochs, towering mountains, glassy inlets, and forested islands, with the occasional lonely house or jetty. Seagulls chase each other across the cliff faces, seaweed twists in the turquoise water. Picton is a pretty little seaside town, dominated by its harbour complex and station. It’s a tourist drop off and pick up point, and there are all sorts here. Plump elderly Americans in baseball hats; a young Australian dad in a wide brimmed hat, cradling a bundle from which his tiny daughter’s waving fists and furious screams indicate she’s fed up with travelling; backpackers with towering rucksacks; an energetic youth in shorts and vest doing his exercises at the bus stop. Passing cars loaded with multicoloured



canoes, shops with wetsuits hanging outside, and adverts for whale watching cruises, we make it to a wide grassy sward overlooking the little beach to eat our packed lunch. Carpets of familiar geraniums, busy lizzies and marigolds surround chunky palm trees. Then back to the station now a scene of some chaos. Crowds of tourists throng the tiny wooden office. The two railway staff are flustered. ‘Nobody told us there was no train today. We didn’t know they were sending a bus!’ This is intriguing, as, one bitter winter’s night thousands of miles away in Millport two months ago, while the fire roared in the grate and snow lay outside, the wonders of the internet informed us that sleepers were being replaced on South Island, and buses would be supplied on this exact date. Seems someone forgot to inform the station. Duly the buses arrive and the harassed staff manage to get rid of the muddled looking tourists.

Approaching Christchurch

If the scenery could get anymore spectacular, it did. From green gardens full of flowers, to dry brown hills rising range after range to skyscraping blue volcanic cones, laced with white clouds. Then row upon row of grapevines, each of their regimental lines each ending with a rose bush frothed with pink and white blossom. More yellow mountains, and then in the distance rectangles of brilliant lilac and orange. This is Lake Grassmere and these are salt pans which supply all of New Zealand’s salt requirements. And then the sea, a startling blue-green edged with brilliant white breakers. Long grey sand beaches, empty of people but full of logs whitened by the sea. A traffic sign warning of the possibility of seals on the road.

The bus reaches the station and we transfer to the little train. It twists along tight to the beach, dodging into tunnel after tunnel, but always returning to the sea. A clutch of tiny penguins wade in the breakers. Kelp twists in the sun like the shining locks of a million brunette mermaids. At last the houses appear, and Christchurch Station. Cases have to be collected from a conveyor belt which simply ends and bags fall off into a jumbled heap. I grab mine and drop it on a girl’s foot. She says it’s OK but hobbles off maimed for life.

And there’s Ethel, Bill’s cousin. Again, family warmth triumphs over thousands of miles and decades of years apart. Back to their lovely bungalow and supper. The nomadic life is not at all bad.