The rail thing

Jon drops me off at Christchurch's railway station at 6.45am (what a pal!) and I catch the Kiwi Rail scenic service to Picton, which leaves at 7am. It's a smart, airy and spotlessly clean train with an open-air observation carriage at the back and a colourful toytown-style engine at the front.
Everyone is very excited to be on the train apart,  that is, from the teenager who has plonked himself down in a prime table-seat with the perfect seaward view and fallen asleep for the duration. The first section of the journey is pure atmosphere with the ground swathed in mist and the sun rising and gradually burning through. The snappers among us are up and down like yo-yos visiting the observation car to capture it all on camera.




As we pass through little villages and larger towns people wave at us. Rail travel is dying out in New Zealand – it's expensive and services have gradually been curtailed to a handful of services used by tourists and locals without cars. It's a great glimpse of New Zealand's back country, though, and at one point we pass de-salination plants with water glowing pink from the process and mountains of salt waiting to be transported.


After a couple of hours we begin to skirt the coastline and the views from the observation car change from rolling hills and light industry to sea cliffs and a sparkling South Pacific ocean. There's a stop at Kaikoura, a famous whale-watching base. There are no whales until at least May but we see dolphins leaping through the waves in the distance and seals sunning themselves on the rocks below the rail tracks.


Then we have our first glimpse of the North Island, covered, as the early Polynesian explorer Kupe first observed, with a long white cloud.

We are nearing our destination as we pass through the world famous Marlborough wine region and the landscape is blanketed with row upon row of lush vines.
Finally there's our journey's end, the small port of Picton in the southernmost inlet of the Queen Charlotte Sound, where I'll board a water taxi to my hideaway resort, Bay of Many Coves.
I just have time for a short walk around this unassuming town. Indeed, the fact that Picton has a Flying Haggis pub and a chippy with industrial-level output, gives you an idea of the ambience of the place. It's fine by me and I carb up on deep-fried corn balls (yummy) and chips with aioli.
Since we've come a considerable distance north it's quite a bit warmer, too. Funny to think of that, being a Northern Hemisphere-born lass who usually enjoys warmer weather the further south she goes. My bag is tagged and ready for the next adventure...

She'll be coming round the mountain

First of all, my room in the youth hostel at Arthur's Pass on the South Island is called Big Tops. I see this more as a challenge to attempt one of the major peaks here, than a reference to how much weight I seem to be putting on. 

But the weather is set to close in so I decide to go up Scott's Track, which promises good viewpoints on the way up to Avalanche Peak, which I may not reach. It's relentlessly uphill on a very steep and winding bouldery track, every corner a haul up over waist-high tree roots or gigantic piles of stones.

I can see across to the Devil's Punchbowl falls, over to the Otira valley where the grey road snakes down towards the viaduct, and down to the east where the weather looks annoyingly sunny. Grrr. At the end of the treeline I meet four Spanish blokes from the hostel coming down. Sounds like they made it to the top. Double grrr. Because by now it's raining and I'm out in the open. When it gets particularly persistent I shelter under a gorse bush, then battle on.

I can see Avalanche Peak up ahead but then it disappears in the clouds and I think, this is crazy, there will be no views, I am on my own, and I only have a flimsy cagoule and a Niagara Falls style rain poncho. My dad would be most disapproving of my inappropriate clothing. It calls to mind the time I walked up a peak in the west of Scotland with him. He took one look at the wellies I was wearing and said, "I hope we don't meet anyone I know!"
Anyway, I decide to turn back. After a brief and rain-lashed detour to the Devil's Punchbowl falls and a quick look at Jack's Hut, an old workman's cottage that looks a bit like a Dalek...


...I drive on in search of some of that eastern sunshine, not quite believing the dramatic lighting effects it creates around the high country, particularly over the (very dry) riverbed of the Waimakariri.

I take a wander around Castle Hill, a strange other-wordly expanse of limestone outcrops and boulders, used in the closing battle sequences of one of the Narnia films and all the more spooky because I am completely alone.





While watching the sun set from my perch on top of a giant boulder I hear from Jon and Janine, my friends in Christchurch, the sad news that their cat Jimmy has been knocked down and killed on the road outside their house. It's a terrible shock. We decide it's best if I stay out for another day to allow them some family grieving time. Down in the foothills in a place called Springfield, I find a handy youth hostel, Smylies, run by a New Zealand / Japanese couple. The place dates back to the 1870s when it was a guesthouse serving the Bullock train that passed through town. Inside is a warren of rooms of odd dimensions featuring mismatched furnishings, an impressive DVD library and a vast collection of Manga on the shelves.
There's also one of those wooden Japanese baths where the water is kept scalding hot. You give yourself a good scrub in the shower first, then get into the tub, slowly. I manage (just) a ten-minute dook and it soothes my aching muscles no end. I check the temperature and it's 40 degrees. I'm sleeping in the Pink Room with the most blissful double bed. Also staying at the hostel tonight are Liz and Liz, sisters-in-law from Auckland, and Maggie, a muscular American chick who keeps her woolly beanie on at all times.

The Lonely Planet guide that I've downloaded to my Kindle (great idea for travellers, folks) suggests a tramp up nearby Rakaia Gorge (that's one for the Bulgarians where Rakia is the national drink). It's only half an hour away and hopefully the weather will stay dry. On the way I stop in Sheffield and stock up on comfort food for the Puentener-Kings.  

The gorge is lined with chalky cliffs and the water is pure aquamarine. At the start is a bridge that looks like a shaving mirror that has been fully extended. 

The path meanders along the gorge, up and down through thick sections of bush, then out onto open verges overlooking the chasm.
 There's a short detour down to the Snowdon coal mines, now caged off, with the tracks that took the wagons of coal down to the river being taken over by vegetation.

I'm followed by a friendly Fantail (Piwakawaka) for about ten minutes. Jon disappoints me later by saying it was only hoping that my footfall on the path would bring some tasty insects to the surface.

The walk ends at an expansive lookout on top of a cone-shaped hill. I can see Mount Hutt's ski lifts on the lower slopes but not much further up than that as Hutt has a cloud hat on.

I drive back via Methven, in winter a thriving ski town but right now the ski bars and shops look most incongruous.
On my last day in Christchurch Jon and I find a gap site filled with empty chairs, one for each of the 185 people killed in the earthquake. Visitors are invited to choose a chair and sit awhile with their thoughts. It's powerful, elegant, moving.

Finally here's my tribute to Jimmy the cat. You were adored.

Westward ho!

The weather forecast is looking good for the west coast and not so good for the mountains so that helps me decide in which direction to drive for my three-day road trip – out of Christchurch, over Arthur's Pass and down to the Tasman Sea. When I reach the rain-lashed hills, it's so bleak and wet and misty that I could be driving through Drumochter on my way to Aviemore.
But once over the steep descent at Otira with its great feat of engineering, the Otira viaduct bridge, I'm in sunshine and my mood lifts. I cruise down through agricultural villages turned tourist hangouts, wide alluvial plains, the clouds white and fluffy instead of dark and rain laden. At the coast the sun sparkles on the water and the road hugs the cliff.

I can't resist stopping at one of the volcanic-sand beaches, kicking off my shoes and admiring the handiwork of the rock balancers. Then the sand flies notice me. Little blighters. Within minutes my legs are pebble-dashed with tiny bites.
I am aiming for Punakaiki, or Pancake Rocks, a big draw round these parts. A boardwalk trail gives a bird's eye view of these strange layered rock formations and I follow up my tour by ordering a 'pancake stack' at the cafe. It's the touristy thing to do and that's what I am, after all.

I manage to find one of the local caves, which goes further back than I'm prepared to venture without a torch, and it's certainly atmospheric, water drip-drip-dripping, the entrance fringed with ferns.
I've booked into the local YHA and it turns out to be a delightful wooden lodge tucked away in the bush down an unsealed track. My room looks out onto dense rainforest. There are rustlings in the trees during the night – probably the Weka I saw hobbling about earlier, one of New Zealand's plump flightless birds – and a tuneful dawn chorus in the morning.





I don't have any food to cook but fortunately the hostel has a 'wee shop' with fresh eggs, home baked bread and an assortment of tinned and packeted food. So I cook up scrambled eggs on toast and earmark some bread and a homemade strawberry and chocolate muffin for the following day's packed lunch.

I have a feeling that tonight's sunset will be a special one so I follow the Truman track, twisting down through the bush from the hostel, to a secluded sandy cove. The evening sun shines golden on the curve of cliff at the back of the beach, fronds dangle down casting shadows on sandstone and grey bony fingers of rock stretch out across the sand.

The setting sun does not disappoint the small group from the hostel gathered here, as it sinks below the horizon of the Tasman and finally sends up little flares, bright reflections on distant unseen clouds, perhaps. 

Back at base everyone settles into cosy sofas in front of the wood burning stove to play chess, cards, write postcards, catch up on emails or, ahem, blogs. There's a German girl talking to her boyfriend on Skype. It goes on for about two hours and annoys the hell out of the Germans among my fellow guests. I'm so glad I can't understand what she's saying...

So... a tramp a day keeps the doctor away but before you say, whoa, that's a tad extreme Cate, in New Zealand 'tramp' means hike. The next day's tramp follows the Punakaiki River to join the Inland Pack Track, created by miners in 1865 (during the gold rush) to avoid dangerous coastal cliffs (which were originally navigated on ladders made of flax by Maoris trading greenstone).

I'm in the Paparoa National Park, which is a relatively recent one (Janine, my friend in Christchurch, tells me she was at the opening in 1987). The canyons are deep, up to 200m above the river, while the bush is temperate rainforest with groves of nikau palms and black mamaku tree ferns, with supplejack vines creating a jungle-like canopy. Apart from the odd patch of farming it's a true wilderness area unmolested by humans so there's profusion of birdlife, which I hear but rarely see on the walk.

I cross two swing bridges on the walk and the gentle twanging really gives me the collywobbles, even crossing them at a snail's pace. The river is a constant soundtrack with little falls or rapids and there are tantalisting glimpses of the water along the track. At one point the path ducks into a cave and comes out the other side.
I'm also slightly scared of a few horses that I meet by a river and have a spare muffin ready that I can throw down before legging it, but it turns out they're more interested in nibbling at patches of grass or sipping fresh water from the river.

I return to the car via a driftwood beach where people have built twig teepees and standing sculptures.

There's a colony of Westland Black Petrels offshore from Punakaiki and I see them in the distance. It is apparently the world's only breeding ground for this bird. 

It's time to head to the mountains for the better weather that has been forecast and my route back up to Arthur's Pass passes by Lake Buller and the most picturesque railway station I've ever seen. Second only to Aviemore!
I linger for the sunset with a ginger beer. The clouds up ahead tell me the weather in the mountains is still dreich, so I'm in no hurry to be part of it. I eventually move on, checking in to Arthur's Pass YHA to prepare for the next adventure.