When Kevin suggested a two week adventure in the South Island my ears pricked up, it was too good an idea to pass up. Besides he spoke the local language and had relatives there. We arrived at 1am, Christchurch was well asleep except for our chirpy mini bus driver who soon weaved her way through the empty streets. I find it weird to walk into an unfamiliar house, find a bedroom, strip off and fall fast asleep. But that’s exactly what happened because by 2am nothing makes sense. 

            With the bikes reassembled the next few days were full of climbing up and over the nearby mountain range separating the city from the Port town of Lytteton. My heart raced as I ground my way towards the summit each day, my mind simply kept asking why ? The only consolation was that Kevin’s brother is a paramedic in Christchurch and a speed demon behind the wheel. Maybe he could be called upon if I found it necessary ?

             Enough pottering about, we needed to start our planned tour and we slipped away early towards Mount Cook and the town of Methven. We had all day to ride the 100 kms to our hotel but the South Westerly winds are notorious in this region and can feel like a hand on your chest holding you back. Today the gods were kind and it was a mere zephyr. We cross numerous rivers scoured deeply from heavy rains, the bleached rocks and deep gullies all indicators that Mother Nature is not to be taken for granted here. 

           But it’s that ruggedness that is so alluring about New Zealand’s South Island. After much climbing we roll the last ten kms into Methven, so we arrive smiling not panting. It is a vibrant town full of ski lodges filled to overflowing in the winter and two pubs, the Brown pub and the Blue pub. Keep it simple for the locals I thought without upsetting anyone. Brown is not my favourite colour but we chose it anyway and inhaled a big plate of beef ribs and a few pints of body numbing Speights black beer.  

           Up early, it’s cool up here in the mountains. We wheel our bikes outside past a middle-aged couple, stripped down to their bathers wanting to sit up to their neck in the hot tub. I don’t know that I’d be plonking myself down in a fun filled ski resort hot tub even six months after the season has finished. Tadpoles turn to frogs in the grubbiest of water. 

           Our route changes to enable us to pass at least one shop selling food and hopefully a coffee. There is a lot of nothing between the major towns. In Mayfield we quickly figure that the parked up monster tractors are at the only store which sells everything. We dance in wearing our cycling shoes which are noisier than the low cut gumboots that EVERY tractor driving local farmer is wearing, they’re easy to slip off and keep your feet from webbing. This would be in part because the farming here is pumping megalitres of ground water and any available river water back onto the pasture. I don’t know how long this form of irrigation using 500m long rolling sprinklers can last but currently the summer pasture is as green as Ireland. Other than farmers the only other people are here to immerse themselves in the magnificent outdoors. Our neighbour in Geraldine that night is walking the full length of New Zealand, around 3000 kms, he makes us feel inadequate with our plans for a mere 900 kms.

          Then it’s Geraldine to Fairlie via Pleasant Point where the only action is a constant squadron of milk trucks rumbling through town observed by a couple of old blokes and two disinterested dogs. Food stops have been a constant concern. With our chosen quiet roads come even quieter towns. In the little no shop town of Cave we get an unexpected surprise when we are greeted by a self appointed voluntary lady who has set up her caravan on the verge near the local park. There is a crazy mountain bike ride called the Tour Aotearoa currently underway down the spine of the country. She has been coming out here for a few days to offer free cups of plunger coffee to the participants. There is kindness in the world. We resort to a restaurant dinner in Fairlie because the two pubs are beyond repair and no one seems to care. 

            It’s 6c as we peddle out of Fairlie but the nearby hills warm us and the sun slowly creeps over the hills promises a beautiful day. We reach the Alps to Ocean route and turn to follow a path alongside a large canal, all is good in the world. Up ahead a gap appears in the mountain range and wind that roars hot angry breath is suddenly pushing us off the gravel path. We dismount unable to keep the bikes upright on the loose gravel and lean over the handlebars for over a km till we choose a bitumen road instead of continuing straight ahead on the gravel. The decision was made easy after strong gusts kept picking up the back wheel loaded with pannier bags kept slapping us in the back of the legs. No thanks. The mountains gave us a mixture of crosswinds that we could navigate and finally a tailwind into Twizel as the storm clouds gathered becoming darker and darker. It could have been much tougher finish to the day. 

           People always ask what was the best part of the trip ? Often the answer is complex. This was my pick of the days. The ride to Otematata was a day of mixed emotions and challenging conditions. The storm had come and gone. Overnight it poured in Twizel and on the surrounding mountains there was a fresh dusting of snow, a reminder of how fickle the weather can be here. The morning riding was picturesque along a manmade canal then we turned to follow lake Oahu to the very Scottish styled Lake Oahu lodge. Its exclusive guests would definitely frown on us grubby cyclists sitting in the club chairs for a late morning home made tart and coffee but that’s what we did. I started to dream of a simpler holiday, like falling asleep peering through the dappled light towards the lake. Quite nice I thought, before getting up and wheeling my bike towards the entrance to the track over the nearby hill. 

           The track immediately showed its face. Large boulders scattered in no particular pattern that I could read other than to send me sprawling if I relaxed. This was mountain bike territory not the terrain for loaded touring bikes. We crawled along at 5km/hr for 11 kms to the top. At least we stayed upright. My mind went into neutral and it was about then that I heard a voice inside my head, but it was actually next to me. I turned as a very large, very fit, young bloke bounded from one rock to another like he was enjoying it. The closest town was 10kms away ? Anyway we hadn’t reached the summit when he was bounding back down and my whole  take on the day took a dive. Hmmm. The track down the other side was just as treacherous but with less grunt needed. It was after 3pm and we still hadn’t eaten lunch. The wind returned, the road went from flat to climbing as if to say “you’ll never get there.” Of course we eventually did, to the self proclaimed, Best Dam pub in Otematata.  Depleted of any energy ate slowly and quietly, drank a couple of beers to dull the pain and slunk away to our rooms hoping sleep would repair us. 

              Otematata to Oamaru is another long day of over 100 kms. It’s a frosty 3c and not a single shop open in the town but Google tells us a coffee van will open at 7am to service the local tradies driving through. Sure enough, right on 7am I watch a woman a few hundred metres down the road lift an advertising banner into a holder announcing the day had begun. She is far too chirpy even though the front of her little caravan faces straight into the prevailing wind. She’s been doing it a few years and is obviously/frustratingly  a morning person. We were thankful, the coffee was both hot and strong. We watch the sun creep over the hill as the straw coloured grass shimmers as it catches the first light. I now understand why photographers talk about the golden hour at dusk and dawn. But the best thing about the grass is it’s bent in the direction we are riding, come on tailwind. We follow the Waitaki river for quite some time into the small town of Duntroon where we first spot two young Queenslanders on two fully loaded mountain bikes also keen to get to Oamaru. Form there its a hard packed path for much of the reminder of the day. Once we pass through an old rail tunnel we can be assured that all serious climbing is over. We celebrate arriving in Oamaru with a big steak dinner at Fat Sally’s diner. Kevin’s farming brother, Paul joins us and for once we are the noisy lot getting dagger stares from adjoining tables. Oh well. 

                 My body needs a warm shower every morning, mainly to get my muscles moving then another at days end to wash away the sweat and grime. So I’m squeaky clean and feeling good after more than a week of continuous peddling. We pack the bikes on the bus to Dunedin, the only road just too busy to enjoy. But a few nights in Dunedin is a shock to the system after the quiet little kiwi country towns. 

               Dunedin is a student town and more than 15% of the population are between 18-20 years old. So you constantly feel really, really old. It’s supposed to be study, study, study but we were there for Saint Patrick’s day and they partied hard. The do this thing called 6 before 6…am, six drinks before breakfast. You don’t have to be a clairvoyant to see how this early drinking will finish. Whilst pre-warned about the drinking I wasn’t ready for the reverberating bass music that started at 4.30am evidently to inspire their relentless drinking. The windows rattled, I didn’t sleep. Needless to say many didn’t make it to lunch but quite a few slept this early revelry off, or collapsed and some to my amazement went out and did it all again.  I can only imagine the phone calls to parents begging for more money to be sent. Not for books but to pay their bar tab. I liked Dunedin a lot it has an energetic vibe and plenty of arts and small Independant galleries and workshops in many of the old footies linked to the old port area. 

                 Our last big day of touring was to the Royal Albatross Centre, North of Dunedin. The road is quiet following the edge of the harbour with plenty of shoulder. We saw a wide variety of wading birds revelling in the low-tide mudflats as we followed the waters edge. It was also deliciously flat for much of the way till they threw in a few late hills just to remind us we were in New Zealand. The visitors centre is a rather fancy building with a big education area attached. The fact that they charge A$60 to see the albatross nesting in the side of the windswept hill is money for jam. We were having none of it and after buying a coffee and sweet tart headed down to the nearby lookout where a few kind renegade albatross proceeded to do 360 degree circles above our heads in the non paying area. Three cheers for these jumbo sized birds who fly for years on end before returning to nest. Their soaring on the thermals inspires us to turn back towards Dunedin and we are back in double quick time with a favourable Northerly at our backs. 

                   There was once a passenger train line down this West coast of the South Island but it was abandoned years ago. Today there are just two daily buses that take six hours to drive from Dunedin to Christchurch. Unlike our overloaded bus from Oamaru there are only our two bikes to pack under the bus. But the bus is full to overflowing with passengers and like all good public transport has its fair share of nut cases. If they get in with more than three supermarket bags of life stuff you are going to be trouble. The bus had barely got up to cruising speed when a woman a few rows back starts telling anyone who would listen that when they let her out of remand they just dump you outside the prison. No one could move away, the bus was full and she had a whole list of useful information to share like that. So as if to block her out we fell into a dopy comatose peace. Suddenly the silence was broken by her phone going off and a full report on how she may have another psychotic episode or would it be an anxiety attack. Images flashed through the minds of all around her, we dozed with one eye open. 

                 While all of this is going on, outside the weather has changed and a stiff Southerly wind is blowing hard from the Antartica then the skies opened up. Finally the bus sloshes into Christchurch and we must unload in the rain then find somewhere to assemble the bikes. I’ve been here before but this time I’ve found a comrade who is very quickly getting as wet as me. We eventually push off, soaked to the bone with about six kms to ride. The streets are awash and the passing cars send a sheet of water all over us. You can’t get any wetter than wet. As we near the house we will stay in tonight we decide to get some dinner because it’s nearly 9pm. Two drowned rats open the door into the Thai restaurant, the unsure staff look at us in dismay, the seated, warm, dry customers start giggling into their drinks. We sit there with pools of water the size of. Toddlers pool around us and try to pretend we are normal, we obviously aren’t. Dinner finished and glad to see us depart we step back onto the bikes for another drenching. Ten minutes later it’s a warm shower and straight to bed in a bid to stop the shivering. 

                         So yeah you could say we had a real mixed bag of experiences over the two weeks.  it’s why I love to travel, to get out of my comfort zone and breathe in the unfamiliar. New Zealand’s South Island has given me a bit of all those things. all the things I want to experience when I leave home.

                      Thanks for organising this trip Kev, it was a blast. Jeff