Our arrival to the island was a little awks. The team came out to meet us. “Do you have a tent?”… “erm, hi, I’m Charlie, erm, no, sorry”… “do you have sheets?”… “erm, no, sorry, we asked Francis”… “it's fine, we will find you somewhere to sleep, come in”. A quick round of names we soon forgot, harried hellos mixed with my overly enthusiastic “we are so happy to be here”, whilst we established that we’d be having much more of those stunted Spanglish convos. Our beds were two singles tucked into the rafters of the upstairs dorm-style sleeping area, we were given new sleeping bags, told that hot water showers were every other day and that everyone chipped in to help whenever anything needed to be done. After dumping our bags and a few more awkward conversations, we were encouraged to have a walk around the island but also told that it was best to leave Francis to his privacy for now. It turned out that he had a house on the other side of the island, La Soplada. The island incidentally, is small. It took twenty minutes to walk around it, ten if walking through the middle. The edges of the island have craggy, moss-covered slippery rocks, while the middle of the island was slightly sunken with a strange moss-covered clearing. The clearing, almost swamp-like was a mixture of what I imagine walking on a cloud would feel like, whilst sinking in quicksand. On our return to the cabin, we were summoned to meet with Francis. Yikes! Francis’ cabin was utterly charming, corrugated black cladding and almost Nordic looking with a beautiful wooden silver coloured deck looking out west on the lakes edge. Perfection really. A quick ten minute chat later, where we were asked what we did when we weren’t galavanting round the world. We were able to express our gratitude for the invitation and Francis explained that he received at least ten messages a day from people asking to visit the island but that he liked the wording of our message and the timing just worked out. We also established that we were all there because Krug the champagne company and Conde Nast Traveller were coming in a couple of days for a photo story and accompanying feature on Francis for the promotion of a collaborative event with Krug which is taking place in London in July. How, if at all, we would be involved with this, wasn’t clear, nor was it clear what role exactly we were to play throughout the whole week but we were excited to find out. Dinner the first night was a simple affair with Francis, Isabella (his girlfriend) and the team gathering round the staff cabin table for delicious Milanese. After re-setting the table four times over because we weren't using the right tablecloth (witnessing for the first time that Francis clearly liked things to be done a certain way) everyone’s roles started to become clearer. Almost everyone worked for Francis in different parts of the country. Not everyone had met each other before, and it was clearly an honour to have been chosen by Francis to come to the island. Everyone took their roles extremely seriously. By way of brief intro for the sake of the tales ahead, I will introduce the team (and our housemates). Rous, the youngest of the group, was responsible for service and drinks having previously worked in the bar of one of Francis’s Mendoza restaurants. An all round superstar and one of our favourites, surely made for Hollywood, as hilariously gay as they come and one of Argentina’s most exciting up and coming techno DJs. Diego, the quiet leader and head chef in one of Francis’s Mendoza restaurants. A super cool dude with a tendency to bellowing out random animal noises and singing along to music coming out of the speaker he randomly carried above his head in the kitchen post service. Edi the Albanian-American chef who really knew his way round a kitchen and wasn’t afraid of telling people what had to be done and when, prone to unpredictable and spontaneous bouts of PMS with a wicked sense of humour that was guaranteed to make everyone chuckle. Also the only member of the team to not have worked for Francis. Monika, the cleaner, official washer-upper, chain smoker with a quiet soul and warm smile - later realised as one of the most important roles on the island based on the volume and variety of plates, cutlery, glasses, and wooden boards they would get through. Gabi, chief baker extraordinaire and Diego’s right hand; a young but brilliant chef in the making who used to work for Francis but was on the cusp of starting a new job in a San Francisco restaurant. Always eager to please and one of the hardest workers, a deeply sensitive and considerate soul who was always making sure we were involved. I will dream of his fresh croissants for the rest of my days. Nacho, the wood and fire man, a hunter gatherer type built like a tree with a heart of gold whose smile is like a ray of sunshine. Island life would not be possible without this man who broke his back everyday, gathering and cutting enough wood to sustain the appetites and cleanliness of eleven people. Never far from a fire, the smell of wood smoke will always remind me of Nacho. Martin, boat man, expert fisherman and general all rounder with hidden devilish character traits. Constantly playing tricks on us and despite his non-existent english he was always the first to make sure we had everything we needed with smiles on tap. Having once lived on the island alone for seven months, there is nothing about this place he doesn’t know. Maria, Francis’ assistant and general whip-cracker. If there was something to be done, Maria was the one to make sure it happened and if this meant rolling up her own sleeves she’d be right in there. Warm natured, easy to laugh and deeply protective of the team, she was the first to pour the Malbec rewards at the end of service. In summary, it was safe to say everything was covered, and that we’d be well fed and looked after. Wood is the key to the island. We discovered this the hard way on our first morning. We rose just as the sun was breaking over the mountains and the dawn mist was still lingering over the lake. After a breakfast of freshly baked bread (at least two loaves are baked everyday, the best taken to Francis) and homemade jams from locally picked Patagonian berries, we headed out on the boat with Team Wood, a couple of axes and some chainsaws. Two back breaking hours later after cascading chucks of wood down a hill, and we had a boat load of freshly chopped dry dead wood. I’m told dead and dry are the key components in wood collecting. After a quick turn around back at base we headed off on a hike up the mountain to have lunch in Chile. Very casual. Walking to Chile with Francis Mallmann. The terrain we walked through was wild. We were hacking our way through the shrubbery, trampling through uncharted territories. There were no paths and no signs. Francis was following his nose as the mountains are his home. He knows it better than anyone. We packed two bottles of water with us for the trip and wondered why the others just packed tin mugs. Silly us. You drink straight from the stream of course! As someone said, if it isn't good water out here in the middle of nowhere, there’s no hope for the world! The scenery along the way was spectacular and after two hours we reached our lunch spot. We sat to eat our sandwiches on top of the mountain at the border of Argentina and Chile, whilst Francis told us about one of his latest projects - a movie set in the very spot we were sitting. It was all pretty surreal. And then of course, what Mallmann lunch would be compete without fire and some apple and dulche de leche pancakes? Heavenly. Dinner was spent celebrating Diego’s birthday in Francis’s cabin. Complete with a giant magnum of red wine, birthday cake, and Francis telling us stories about his beloved dog. And hearing about the cabin that Nacho built and re-built four times over in various filming locations after his narrow escape during a storm that blew it away. That is where the name of Francis’s cabin, La Soplada, came from which translates as ‘wind’. And then it was party time; picture melon negronis, multiple bottles of red wine, techno dancing round a fire, with a backdrop of the most incredible stars. The following few days passed us by in a blur. The Krug / Conde Nast people arrived and there were some tense moments as the team adjusted and changed plans as quickly as the wind when Francis changed his mind at the last minute. It was a strange time for us, everyone had their roles, and were being paid to be there with a purpose. The Krug people were being wined and dined as the guests and were the object of Francis’s sole attention but we were unsure of our place. We pitched in as often as we could, helped with the cleaning, wood cutting, and washing up, but we found ourselves constantly asking what we could do. We would have loved to have gained more of an insight into the cooking but that was clearly off limits. Francis had certain standards and expectations that could not be interfered with. We did however help with the seemingly constant baking, but after a batch of flat scones and even flatter croissants, that too slowly became off limits. You learn more about people when you can't understand them because you don't have the distraction of conversation, you become more observant and notice things about them that you wouldn't otherwise. I will admit that it did just feel like we were in the way a lot of the time. I’d even go as far to say we felt excluded at times. It isn't a nice feeling to not feel a part of something. And with very little to occupy oneself, it starts to become the focus of your day, an unhealthy obsession - “what’s on the agenda today and how much of it will we be a part of?” But as the days passed, we started to understand that we weren't here to play any role, but to simply lean into this wonderful experience we had been given. To read, relax, sit back and enjoy the view. Meanwhile, Rob continued on his quest to catch a trout, spending hours on the lake shore whilst improving his casting technique. Martin had made it look so easy on our first night! And then finally, we witnessed the event we had been looking forward to most, a proper Argentine asado, on the beach Francis Mallmann style! The hours of preparation that went into this meal was ridiculous, it kept everyone busy from dawn until past nightfall. First thing after breakfast, Martín, Francis and Nacho went out to scout for the perfect beach setting, it needed to be west facing for the sunset, with enough dry driftwood to sustain the fires throughout the evening. Once chosen, Nacho spent hours stripping the bark off several carefully chosen sticks that would make up the frame of the BBQ. We later learnt they were stripped purely for aesthetic reasons. The chefs were manic as they prepped as much as they could at the cabin before heading over to the beach. Seven hours later and we were tucking into the feast of all feasts. The aubergines, potatoes, sweet potatoes and pumpkin were nestled amongst the embers and cooked slowly for hours, their charred crusts covered in the ash of the embers when served. The chorizo wheel, now known as 'something I will dream of forever', constructed by Jack of all trades Martín and held together by more stripped sticks, resting above the vegetables, the oils dripping with a hiss as they met the fire. Flatbreads cooked directly on the coals that were charred and crispy on the outside, fluffy and doughy on the inside. Then Francis set about preparing the brook trout caught only hours earlier; wrapping it first in cardboard before encasing it in a grey clay found in the lake by the island, before burying it in more hot embers. Later, it would be cracked open to reveal the tender and moist meat inside. The Argentine kobe, wagyu beef rib with its salty, wood smoked crust was undoubtedly the best piece of meat we have ever had the pleasure of eating. For Francis, it's all about the crust. Disturb or move that piece of meat or fish too soon and the crust will be lost. And dessert, a whole peeled pineapple left to roast and caramelise over the hot embers for eight hours, ginger syrup regularly and tenderly spooned over at frequent intervals, cooked for so long it almost fell off the stick it was spiked onto. Oh, and then there were the magnums of Krug chilling in the lake. The next day, Francis and the Krug team's final, was mostly spent filming. Francis sipping Krug, Francis pulling three bottles of Krug from the lake, Francis chopping a pumpkin with an axe, Francis chopping an onion. Meanwhile, I decided to entertain myself and make a mini documentary of my own. It needs some heavy edits before it'll be ready for its premier. I found it far easier to entertain myself, Rob on the other hand was starting to get restless and was suffering from cabin fever. Being in such a small space with so many strangers isn't the easiest of things. Pure unadulterated isolation is at first hard to digest, with no phone reception and few distractions, it is tough to just 'be' and I especially felt rather melancholy at times. But really, what I learnt is that once you find the stillness, you realise that the melancholy you feel isn't a bad thing, it's just your thoughts uninterrupted and you come to embrace it. The others kept talking about the 'island energy', normally I wouldn't buy into that sort of chat but they were true, there really was something about the place that has left a lifelong impression on us. The simplicity of life there certainly puts things into perspective. We need very little in life to be happy. And then, before we knew it, we were spending our last days on the island. We had thought that once Francis had left the team would descend into party mode, but it was quite the opposite! The atmosphere was in some respects more relaxed, no set meal times, longer mornings sleeping in but there was also the feeling that it was time to leave. We had a shit load of Krug to get through (such a hardship) and my birthday eve to celebrate. Techno was played loud and we danced around a fire. Everyone told each other they loved each other. Lifelong bonds solidified. The boys even managed to cobble together a dulce du leche smothered birthday cake, candle and all! It also seemed very important that we leave no red wine behind which naturally helped the festivities along. Island clean up the next day with a heavy head was a bit of a mission. But Nacho presented us with beautiful La Isla mementos, a birthday gift for me and one so Rob wouldn't get jealous. I even had my tarot cards read and was told that a mysterious veil was lifting and that I should celebrate life with the carefree attitude of a child. And then the storm hit and everyone's mood turned south with it. To be fair, it seemed like just heavy, relentless rain to us. But after a run back to the mainland Rous and Martín returned with the bad news that there had been a national disaster and Comodoro airport was closed. Crap. It didn't actually make much of a difference to us as we didn't have any concrete post-island plans anyway, but it cast a downer on our last night as routes home were unclear. After an arduous and cramped journey, involving a boat and two four hour car journeys, we made it off La Isla and finally all arrived in Esquel for the night. One last (relatively uneventful!) drunken night together before everyone scattered. Our island experience was over. I am going to tell you a story. It's a story that you may not believe, and to be honest, writing it from where I am now on a six hour bus journey weaving through the Andes from Argentina to Chile, I can barely believe it myself. About a year or so ago, Rob started to watch a series called Chef’s Table on Netflix. I was bored at work one day, the office was empty, it was lunch time and raining outside, so I decided to watch one episode and randomly chose Francis Mallmann. Well, if you’ve watched this episode and know what I’m talking about, keep reading, because you will understand the magnitude of our luck. If you haven't watched it, watch it now and come back to read the rest when you've finished. If you don’t really care, then stop reading because you probably won’t appreciate the magic. After watching the episode, I was blown away by Francis's attitude towards his style of cooking, not to mention the private island in deepest darkest Patagonia where the documentary is flimed. I then came across a blog post written by a woman who had been fortunate enough to spend a week on the island, by making contact via Instagram. I remember sending Rob the link and telling him, "wouldn’t it be amazing if we could go there?". It was acknowledged with, "indeed it would", but quickly dismissed as a pipe dream. I decided to let the idea rest and follow Francis Mallmann on Instagram instead. But throughout the following year, I found myself scrolling through his feed getting lost in the endless little squares of dreamy Patagonian perfection. Fast forward to ten days ago, when we were lying in bed in our Buenos Aires airbnb, exhausted after a day on our feet. I turned to Rob and said, “Fuck it, I’m gonna just message him, what harm can it do.” My excellent and well practised stalking skills had told me that Francis was currently in Buenos Aires, and my ‘if you don't ask you don’t get’ instinct kicked in. Rob was supportive but dubious to say the least. “Just imagine if he replies”, I said, whilst I constructed what I hoped to be a politely enthusiastic but to the point message. Rob half asleep replied “ok, but he won’t, he’s a busy man”. 9.10AM, 22nd March. Blurry eyed, picked up phone, read various emails, replied to some whatsapps. Casually checked Instagram. “HE’S REPLIED!!!” Oh my god, oh my god. And then he DM’d me stating casually that he was on his way to the island right now and that we were welcome. We were WELCOME, to the private Patagonian island of our dreams. And then I was whatsapping him and he was giving us instructions on how to get there but also saying we had until 2pm that day to confirm with him before he lost all reception for the next ten days. Frenzied panic, what about the bus we had booked the next day to Iguazu Falls? What about the flight to El Calafate we had just paid £600 for the day after next? How can we make this happen? We had to make this happen. “This is weird Charlotte, I don’t think it’s him. Why would he reply? It can’t be serious. It’s all too quick.” Well it is bloody serious Rob because now he is CALLING ME. Francis Mallmann blinking on my screen. I was sweating a little, I was nervous, I must have sounded like a twelve year old girl backstage at a One Direction gig. It was agreed, if we could get to Comodoro airport first thing in the morning, his driver would pick us up and our ride to the island would be sorted. It would be impossible to get there on our own, it's too remote and the roads are unpredictable. We had one chance to make it happen. 2pm was our deadline to confirm. It was 10.30AM. Action all stations, GO GO GO. Of course there would be a strike and a huge demonstration closing off most of the main streets, on the one day we had to run around Buenos Aires like lunatics. Suddenly our day was full of things that needed immediate action. First - sort our laundry, can’t go to an island with a bag full of dirty pants. Second - change our flights, pray that there is a flight to Comodoro that will get us there first thing. Third - find post office to ship home excess clothing, shells, suspected jade and other unknown maybe valuable beach rocks. Laundry was easy, collect that night. Change flights - thank GOD for Maria, our Aerolineas angel, who on hearing what adventure was at the tip of our fingers, decided to make the world spin the other way and do everything in her power to get us there. It worked. There was a flight at 4.40am, arriving 8am. Couldn't be more ideal. It was 1.30pm - desperate search for wifi amongst thousands of protesters to reach Mr Mallmann and give him our firm acceptance of his kind offer. 1.50pm, we get the famed Whatsapp blue ticks, receive confirmation of his driver’s details and we feel like we are in a dream. We celebrate with a street-side sausage sandwich and some really awful churros. Now, the post office. Worst ordeal ever. Don’t ever try to send a package over 2kg from Argentina, because apparently you need to get the items disinfected. What a way to piss on our Mallmann parade CorreoArgentina - you suck. Anyway, the short story is we managed it. Rocks and shells are on their way home in a stupidly expensive package. There aren't many things that will make me wake up at 2.30am with a smile on my face, but waking to head to a private Patagonian island is one of them. It was a very odd feeling, heading into something we knew practically nothing about. We had so many questions running through our minds, how were we getting there, when would we arrive, where would we sleep, what would we do? We didn't actually even know how long we would be on the island for and because of this we hadn't made any plans for where or what we’d do after the island. But, that was all part of the adventure. As promised, our names were on a sign being held by a chap called Gabriel at Comodoro airport, who turned out to be the father of Gabriel the younger, who is also a driver. We quickly made use of the airport wifi to tell our nearest and dearest we’d be offline for the next ten days and we were swiftly led to a plush blacked-out windowed 4x4 and we were off! Four and a half hours of bumpy dirt tracks and intermittent bursts of spanglish later, broken only by a toilet stop for a wee under a bridge in the middle of nowhere and some delicious calzones bought from the back of a car, we arrived at a little wooden pier with the most spectacular views. During the journey we had learnt that; a) there would be 11 people on the island in total and some of them may be British b) you can’t milk a llama c) Gabriel senior liked to fish. The plot thickened! Gabriel had to make the long journey back to Comodoro that same day (he made the eight hour round trip just for us!) so we were left sitting at the pier, in the middle of nowhere, with no phone reception, and no idea when our boat might be coming to collect us. But we were so happy, and curious, and excited that it didn't really matter. Forty minutes later and a chug-chug woke us from our pier-side snooze as we watched our ride breeze in. Brief pleasantries were exchanged, Martin was his name, we were to wait a while. "No hablo ingles". Twenty minutes later and the front of the boat was stacked full of wood and we were off. It was COLD. And seriously choppy. It wasn’t the first time (and I’m sure it won’t be the last) that we were grateful for our expensive all-weather jackets.
And then finally, after a ninety minute boat ride, we arrived at the place we would call home for the next ten days. A little wooden pier led to a wooden deck with a throne made of wood and some, yep you guessed it, wooden benches which sat outside the main cabin, a smaller cabin and what looked like a wooden large shed. The sun was shining and it was everything we had imagined it would be. To be continued... I have to admit I felt a little sad to be leaving the comfort and safety of New Zealand. It's been nice understanding people and communicating freely and I can say that I am feeling a little anxious about the next leg of our journey. So much of it is unknown (and typically we have done no research) and the sheer size of the continent is more than a little intimidating. I have come to realise how necessary it is to know you have accommodation booked, it’s reassuring to have a destination. We booked four nights in a lovely airbnb in Palermo and it was much cheaper than we had expected. It was a traditional Argentinian “chorizo” house, so called because it meanders deep into the city block, all hidden behind the street facade. It was built in 1889 so came with buckets of charm as well as Dani and Mariana, two of the loveliest hosts we have had so far. Buenos Aires is a great introduction to South America, oozing charm with crumbling colonial architecture portraying its affluent and romantic past. It’s a port city built by immigrants predominantly from Europe, where different neighbourhoods developed their unique styles. At times you could be mistaken for thinking you were in Paris or Madrid, although a moderately dystopian version. Ubiquitous, mindless graffiti is a serious blight on the city, which also hints at the poverty a stone’s throw away. A number of areas even in the centre are considered out of bounds to tourists (and locals) for security reasons, and walking around at night generally comes with risks. This is fairly self-evident by the large number of armed police standing on every other corner. That said, Buenos Aires is a city that definitely comes alive at night. Food is taken very seriously by Argentinians, although no-one eats before 9pm and even that’s considered early. This is also the first place we have encountered the ‘free’ city walking tours. Young local people offer tours for tips, which is a great way to hear locals discuss the history and current issues of the place, with a fair bit of politics and left-wing ranting thrown in. And the infamous Recoleta cemetery stands up to the hype, Catholics do it best. Lastly, don't mention the Falklands. P.S. We took a small number of bad photos in Buenos Aires.
Auckland is a nice city. I can't think of much else to say. There are some decent restaurants, good bars, and a fairly worthy art gallery. It's a city that is often lauded for its high standard of living, but it's really only moderately interesting to visit. We also made the absurd decision to illegally stay the night in a car park right in the centre of town (we'd paid for 24 hours parking), however the large gang and raucous antics which congregated all around our van made this decision untenable, so we decamped to the council designated car park on the central reservation of a major highway instead (narrowly avoiding a police breathalyser on the way). The docks are certainly a nice area to visit, and the generic mix of old and modern suburban architecture commonly found in the Antipodes makes it a pleasant place to hang out. However one night was sufficient.
Although we woke up with a beautiful view over the rolling hills of Matamata, we also woke up to a flat tyre. And, in typical fashion, as soon as we started to work on it, the heavens decided to open. Cue me running inside whilst Rob rolled around in the mud and grease outside. Luckily it wasn’t Rob’s first time so he had it off in a jiffy. Less fortunately however, he had not accounted for the soft ground which was getting softer by the minute, so there was a little difficulty getting the new one on as we (he) watched the jack sink into the ground. Thankfully the campsite owner was a bit of a gem and volunteered to help in the mud, and after a few enthusiastic grunts they got it fixed in the end. The final night in our camper was the best. We found the jackpot of all free campsites, a grassy, uncrowded parking area on a spit of land in Bowentown. We arrived with enough time to go for a romantic walk along the beach for sunset, watching the fishermen try their luck in the last of the dusk swells, really beautiful. We read about a little secret swimming cove via the Campermate app just a short walk away, the perfect morning wake up as the sun rose. Our friend James has very kindly offered us his beach house in Whangapoua, Coromandel for a few nights. We are so looking forward to be able to chill out and stay still for a few days. En route we stopped off via Hot Water Beach, a beach that has natural hot springs running under it. You have to catch it when the tide is out, hire a spade and dig yourself a little pool out of the sand and bathe in the warmth. We weren't the first to hear about this place. it was rammed and actually a little unpleasant as everyone just rolled around like beached whales in puddles of hot water. Fun to see but I was done after ten minutes. We arrived at James’s perfect little cabin just in time for sunset. The view was incredible, we feel very lucky to be able to call this place home for the next few days. THANK YOU JAMES! The highlight of Coromandel is undoubtedly New Chums Beach, one of New Zealand’s finest. After clambering over the rocks and walking through the forest you are greeted with the most insane beach which we had pretty much to ourselves. Our next days expedition was to visit Cathedral Cove. In retrospect we should have been more organised and visited this on our way up to Whangapoua as it was on route, but as always we don’t like to make things easy for ourselves. Not sure why it's called Cathedral Cove, I will have to google it! Hard to describe it, but there is a reason this place os on the tourist map. Sadly we didn't have it to ourselves but the sky was blue and the view was awesome. The next few days were filled with long lie-ins, good food, too much wine, sunsets and beach walks. I now have another bag of shells that will be shipped home with my “jade”. We even came across some seal tracks on the beach one afternoon but alas he was no where to be seen. The time has come to leave this little pocket of heaven and make our way to Auckland. I am not going to lie, I wasn't happy about having to leave. A lunch stop at The Coromandel Mussel Kitchen was a brief distraction. Due to having to drop off the camper, we got to the airport nice and early. The upside to this is that we were able to discuss upgrade options. Upgrade, I think, is one of my favourite words. Hello the SKY COUCH. The clever folk at Air New Zealand have made your ‘flying in economy comfortably’ dreams a reality. For a bargain amount of only 100USD, you get the third middle seat “for free” and foot rests that come all the way up to meet the back of the seats in front of you, hence making a couch. Throw in a soft quilted sheet to lie on and a few massive fluffy pillows and I’d say it's moderately comfortable like business class. Well, minus the fillet steak and champers on tap.
Having a self-contained vehicle is essential here, you can’t “free park” unless your van clearly shows this and our budget really needs a few low spend days at this stage! We free parked in a car park in Wellington, which is probably one of the more unpleasant things we have had to do so far. This is where the porter-potty came in useful. It was not an enjoyable activity for either of us. But when it's 2am and it's pissing it down and you need a wee, you find yourself grateful. The best thing about Wellington was the Garage Project brewery, we visited the Te Papa Museum too, but it’s fairly missable. Our friend James, a New Zealander who basically wrote out our itinerary for us, told us about the Tongariro crossing and the more we read about it, the more we knew we had to give it a go. Its a seven hour day walk that takes you up, over and around a volcano, its red crater and a couple of emerald lakes. There is a shuttle bus that most accommodations put on to take you to the start and pick you up at the end, sadly, due to the weather, the shuttles were cancelled and the tourist office were advising against the ascent. So we decided to give it a go anyway because we hadn't come all this way for a little rain and 90kph wind to put us off. We are SO glad we did it. The climb was a hard one but we were rewarded by some of the MOST incredible views we have ever seen. Incidentally, it is also the set of Mordor (from Lord of the Rings) so you can imagine how rough and bleak the landscape is. The walk begins through fairly flat and grassy terrain, then the ascent starts and the landscape quickly changes again to become craggy black rocks. It then kind of plateaus into what I can only describe as Mars before the final and steepest climb to the edge of the crater. But I’m not gonna lie, if our parents had seen the scree covered ridge we were crawling along in wind that really could have blown us off, I think they’d of had small heart attacks! It was indeed gnarly at the top and for the majority was a total white-out but every twenty minutes or so, the clouds would part and the views would take your breath away. It's hard to put it into words so here are some photos instead. The deluge continued as we journeyed to Rotorua. This is day three of non-stop torrential rain and we are getting pretty sick of it. Ohinemutu is a living Maori village on the shores of Lake Rotorua. This is the face of Tama-te-Kapua, captain of the Te Arawa canoe which came to New Zealand from Polynesia in about 1350. He and his brother were forced to leave Polynesia because they stole some breadfruit from a tree that belonged to another chief. Their descendants still occupy the village today. Rotorua is ridiculously touristy and it was a confusing ordeal trying to work out which tourist trap we should give our hard earned cash to to catch a glimpse of the bubbling hot pools and squirting geysers. We discovered that Te Puia is the most expensive of them all but apparently has the best food. In the end, we went for Whakarewarewa Village, foolishly paid for the cringe-worthy tour and performance, and narrowly missed the worst of the torrential downpours. I guess it was good to see but it was one of the more expensive touristy things we have done and I am sure our lives wouldn't have felt like something was missing if we’d missed it out… We discovered that you can actually just walk into the village and dodge paying the fee as no one checks, but also found out that the money goes back into the village whereas at Te Puia, it all goes to the government. And none of the food is worth it anyway, its advertised as being steamed/cooked in the ground/hot water but in actual fact, it is cooked in the canteen next door and its all just one big performance for the flocks of Chinese tourists. The redwood forest outside Rotorua was amazing and one of the benefits of the heavy rain meant that we basically had it to ourselves. Hobbiton, the land of the hobbits. What a magical place. I basically want to live there. I love small things, I find anything in miniature form ridiculously cute so it was basically a can’t miss for me. Undoubtedly the most expensive touristy thing we have done so far but no regrets. Matamata, the closest town to Hobbiton, is famed for its rolling green hills. Peter Jackson, the director of Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit films, was location scouting from a helicopter when he found Alexander Farm and immediately knew it was the perfect setting for Hobbiton. The rolling green hills made ideal hobbit homes, there were some large impressive oak trees and enough flat land to build the camp that would become home for the team during filming. The father and owner when first approached, didn’t have the foggiest what these ‘ring’ books were about but signed the contract after his son gave him a boot under the table. They lucked out and its been a cash cow ever since. After the filming of Lord of the Rings finished, they dismantled everything and then rebuilt it all again for The Hobbit a few years later, at which point they decided to build permanent structures, thus preserving the magic forever. The attention to detail is phenomenal, there is even a fake tree up on the hill and it's so well made you can hardly tell it's any different to the others. The leaves were flown in from Taiwan, painstakingly attached individually, but when Peter Jackson saw it he decided they weren't green enough and had all 200,000 individually hand painted. The paths through the village were created by one of the crew walking the same track every single day for a month so that they had that ‘lived in’ look for the aerial shots. The work that goes in to still maintaining it is amazing, the veggie patch alone is a full time job! Our tour guide was good too, after wandering round for a couple hours you end up at The Green Dragon pub for a pint of cider which was really something else!
We picked up our Britz campervan from Christchurch and were surprised by how much of a serious step up from our awful Jucy van it was. I pledge to never use Juicy rentals ever again. They are actually pretty expensive for what you get, we are paying less with Britz despite it being a self contained vehicle that has everything you need, and the real bonus is that you can stand up in it so no more ‘lie down wrestle with your jeans’ dressing moments which I’ve just about had enough of. We read on another blog that the Campermate app was saving all sorts of campers lives and it’s true, we would have been lost without it. Its live update map shows you all the campsite facilities around you and each campsite has a reviews page so you can get an idea of what sort of place it is.
So, our luck has run out. The weather is absolutely terrible. We wanted to head up to Kaikoura but the rain is incessant and so incredibly heavy. Its all about the water there, whale watching etc so it isn't really worth heading that way as no boats will go out anyway. Also, following a recent earthquake in November last year, the road from there to Picton which is where the ferry leaves is inaccessible which turns what should be a three hour drive into an eight hour drive. Not ideal and sad to be missing the whales and dolphins but we can’t have it all! We only had time for a quick drive through of Marlborough before racing to catch our ferry which is a shame but we also feel like we have done quite a few wineries in Tassie and we have more ahead of us in Argentina anyway. We did manage to make a quick pit-stop at Cloudy Bay, known to many in Hong Kong as one of the more palatable wines readily available. The ferry should have been three hours but due to the storm and high seas, it ended up being five. I tried in vain to watch out for whales but my whale watching experience is clearly not meant to be. Christchurch is the second post-disaster area we have visited. The earthquake in 2013 devastated large areas of the city, especially in the centre. Visually the reconstruction is a failure. There are numerous vacant plots from demolition predominantly now used as car parks, and an even larger number of derelict and condemned buildings still awaiting the bureaucrat's decisions. The most contentious is the city’s cathedral, the spire of which dramatically collapsed in front of stunned bystanders. However in amongst it all there are some amazing and resilient cafes, bars, and restaurants surrounded by striking street art and a diverse use of public space. Street art is clearly accepted, encouraged even and does a great job of livening up some of the derelict spaces. The abundance of shipping containers which on a practical level, act as supports to some of the more unstable buildings, also house some of the coolest of pop-up bars, independent shops and coffee joints. A number of companies have inhabited spaces previously unavailable to them in the centre, and in particular the coffee roasting and craft beer cultures have boomed. The most noteworthy piece of architecture however was built post-earthquake. Disaster architect Shigeru Ban designed a cardboard tube structure to act as a temporary cathedral. It’s an extremely simple and low-cost building but poignantly powerful in its simplicity. Although clearly impoverished in parts it is an endlessly positive city keen to return to normality.
C1 Espresso is a cafe housed in the old post office and is probably one of the coolest cafes we have ever been to, your food is delivered via the original post sorting tubes that snake across the ceiling. C4 was another super cool coffee house, a warehouse style space where they roast their own beans and have a wall of pretty much every type of coffee paraphernalia you could come across. The list of excellent places would go on and on but the only way to really get the vibe of this place is to wander. It was a great place to spend a few days on the South Island, and is certainly one of our favourite cities so far. So we screwed up again ever so slightly in that we had underestimated the popularity of Queenstown at this time of year, and had left it too late to book a camper van, so we have had to revert to Plan B - hire a car to get to Christchurch and collect a camper from there for our onward journey north to Auckland. I have been to New Zealand before, albeit thirteen years ago, and Queenstown is just as beautiful as I remember it to be. The air is crisp, the sky is big and the views are long. The lake is nestled amongst craggy mountains laced with forests. Teaming with backpackers, it was good for one night whilst we got our bearings and hatched a plan. We returned to the World Bar and the drunken nineteen year old memories came flooding back as soon as I saw the row of teapots… If you've been, you'll know the score. Glenorchy is just forty-five minutes drive north of Queenstown, if you've watched the series Top of the Lake, you'll be able to imagine the scenery here. Kinloch Lodge is a dreamy little spot for lunch, sadly with only five days to get to Christchurch, we had to move on but it would have been a great spot for a good book and a bottle of vino. On the way to Wanaka, there are a few fun stopping points, Chard Farm, Gibbston Valley and Peregrine Vineyards as well as the Kawarau Gorge bungy jump. No chance I was doing that, I did a skydive over Lake Taupo the last time I was here and I think that was the extent of my dare devilling days! Not to mention the price, an added expense which our “bank” (i.e. Rob) would not have approved. I think Wanaka would have been a nice place to while away a couple days but sadly it was an overnight drive through for us. The lake itself is beautiful and there are some good walking trails in the area. The drive to Franz Josef glacier was moody and spell-binding. The landscapes make you want to just stare out the window and think about who you are. It’s rather a windy road along the edge of various lakes and rivers so the mountains loom above you and the clouds expand and shrink, giving you an occasional glimpse of its awesomeness. The Blue Pools walk make a good stopping point which you can swim in if you're brave (we were not) but the SWARMS of sandflies make it less fun. They are small but don't let that deceive you, the little fuckers actually eat you alive and their bites look like little warts. I basically don't leave the car without covering myself in deet, Rob is unsurprisingly far more relaxed. A storm is brewing which isn't ideal considering we need good conditions if we are going to get to do our heli-hike on the glacier which is the main reason we want to visit. I have done it before but it was so good I’d gladly do it again and fun to do it with Rob. You take a ten minute flight up to the top of the glacier, do a two hour hike and then fly down again. The ice formations are insane and its the bluest blue you’ll ever see. Our heli-hike has been cancelled. And we stayed in the shittiest of accommodation yet, and paid an arm and a leg for it on top. Bad mood. We could wait to see if the weather clears but we don’t have the time, and Franz Josef is a tourist trap full of Chinese and Indian tour buses that we just wanna get shot of. Onwards!! Hokitika is a funny little place and one of the wettest in New Zealand. Founded in 1864, it was the centre of the west coast gold rush. Its port ranked number one in NZ days of yore due to the sheer number of boats and the high value of exports. Nowadays, the coastline is ragged, driftwood and creepy witch-crafty sculptures are strewn across the beach and the wind and sea-spray whips across your face. Beach combing for the indigenous pounamu green stone (aka jade) is a main activity here. I am delighted to say I now have a little bag full of what I genuinely believe to be jade (Rob doesn't agree) to be shipped home in our next package.
Hokitika has some beautiful and isolated examples of heritage architecture such as the Custom House and the Clock Tower. It is also the setting for a book called The Luminaries which coincidentally Rob is currently reading! It is also home to one of the more fun natural phenomenons we have come across here on the South Island - glowworms! There is a little dell just out of town which is home to thousands of these little glow in the dark worms (which are in fact maggots, not worms, glow-maggots just doesn’t have the same ring to it). We arrived at dusk and stayed until it was pitch black. It was like looking at the Milky Way, magical. Our experience of this place was made even move bizarre by our hilarious Airbnb host for the night - a seventy year old South African lady who lives with her Afrikaans speaking parrot Casanova, a budgie and the little yapper of a pooch, Winnie. Literally couldn't make this shit up. At breakfast she fed Casanova water from her own mouth. Enough said. |
AuthorsRob & Charlie's travelling adventures on their long journey back to London after living in Hong Kong. Four continents, twelve countries, lots of experiences. Archives
July 2017
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Robert Ware & Charlotte Nunn |