The Tongariro Alpine Crossing

Of everything I've wanted to do in New Zealand, walking the Tongariro Alpine Crossing (TAC) has been at the top. Considered one of the best day walks in the country - if not the world - the hike is a steady climb between the peaks of one of New Zealand's most spectacular, unique environments: the volcanic slopes and craters of Mount Tongariro, and it's young, infantile and more volatile vent, Ngaurahoe (pronounced nara-ho-ee).

Mount Tongariro's head lost in the 

clouds on the left, while Ngaurahoe 

stands proud to the right.

The recent weeks have been blighted with heavy rain and overcast skies, atypical of the summers this country is used to, so when my day off correlated with Amy's, and the promise of clear and fine conditions, we had little hesitation in deciding what we were going to do with ourselves.

Everyone I'd spoken to about the TAC recommended starting as early as possible, so we booked our campsite and shuttle, and made the three hour drive down to Tongariro National Park the evening before, past rolling fairytale hills and the vast blue waters of Lake Taupo. We spent the night at the Discovery Lodge, a site with an uninterrupted view of the massif, and further south to the grand peaks and ski fields of Mount Ruapehu. 

Ngaurahoe's ethereal silhouette looming from the mist as the sun rises.

Discovery Lodge offered the earliest shuttle service available at 5:45am, though we decided the 6:15am start sounded a little less painful. The staff at the lodge made sure everyone was heading up with the necessary kit, gave helpful advice on pacing ourselves, before dropping us off at the beginning of the track for 6:30am in the morning mist. Within a few kilometres, the landscape began to change from the familiar heath and bracken moorland of the lower slopes, to strange, flat expanses of dark rock - old lava flows that had oozed during Mount Ngaurahoe's creation. Approaching the Mangateopopo Hut at the base of the hardest ascent - the appropriately named Devil's Staircase, the sun began to illuminate and clear the mist around us, and the imposing grand silhouette of Ngaurahoe began to emerge from the haze.

Mount Taranaki's summit on the horizon, 

a hundred miles away.

Before long, the sun had burned through the mist, giving us a completely clear conditions to start the ascent to the crossing itself. The climb up the Devil's Staircase itself was surprisingly easy, with steps built into the face of the scree, and we made it to the Mangateopopo Saddle before 9am. The Saddle sits between the rugged ridges and craters of Mount Tongariro and the perfectly conical textbook volcano of Ngaurahoe. A small sign advised walkers that the most recent major eruption of Ngaurahoe was just forty years ago, and what to do in the hopeless case of an eruption - run, basically, in the opposite direction to flying rocks. Far off in the distance, the snow-capped peak of Taranaki (Mount Egmont) poked out from above the clouds almost a hundred miles away, crystal clear against the blue of the sky.

The magnificent landscape from the summit of Tongariro: Ngaurahoe in 

the foreground, with Ruapehu  behind.

As we'd made such good time, we decided to make the traverse across to the craggy summit of Mount Tongariro. The temptation to ascend Ngaurahoe was definitely there, but the scree climb to the summit is infamously loose and dangerous during summer, so it is something I decided I would leave for next time and a winter ascent! The poled route over to the summit of Mount Tongariro was quite easy going and we managed to make it well short of the advised time, despite a biting wind picking up along the ridge of South Crater. The additional climb proved well worth the effort though, as Ruapehu became visible in the south, providing an unforgettable, majestic vista across the North Island's volcanic heart.

As we made our way back to the TAC track, the encouragement for an early start became justified: the pathway along the South Crater looked like a column of ants marching across the moonscape. Moving fast to beat the throngs of tourists, we clambered back down to the edge of the Red Crater, an ominous, somehow fearsome feature of deep red rock and dust, with  fumeroles steaming from its surface. The landscape looked martian as we made our way around its edge, and down the scree to the equally surreal Emerald Lakes.

Amy making her way around 

the Emerald Lakes

If the Red Crater is the dark, formidable side of this volcano, then the Emerald lakes are at the other end of the spectrum. The three pools of mineral-rich water glow with incandescent colours creating a beautiful other-worldly effect. The rock around them steams with geothermal activity, a reminder that this volcano is very much alive, breathing sulphurous breath from lungs deep within the rock.

By 11:30, we had begun the descent; a long, winding path of countless steps through fragile alpine scrub with beautiful views across to lake Rotoaira and the mighty Lake Taupo. The sacred Maori site of Ketetahi hot springs blasted clouds of steam to our left as we worked our way down to the valley floor, and after a few long hours of trudging through scrub and bush, we made it back to the car park and our shuttle bus tired and happy, completing the Tongariro Alpine Crossing in a respectable 7 and a quarter hours!

The day was truly incredible, and Tongariro is a very special place. Be warned though, we saw it in the best conditions possible but they can soon turn. We saw far too many people up there in trainers, shorts and t-shirt, and some without food or water. At almost 2000m high, the crossing is definitely alpine and should not be taken lightly, as weather conditions can change at a moment's notice. Make sure you're prepared for anything!

We ended the day with a well-earned meal beside Lake Taupo: an amazing rack of lamb complemented by the stunning view of our day's conquests on the far shore.

Perfect.

Rotorua Continued

Haere Mai!

Well, apologies everyone for this shamefully belated post. Over the past few weeks, the volcanic minefield of Rotorua has remained our base. Both Amy and I have managed to find part-time work in the city, while at the same time committing ourselves to a few chores around a campsite in exchange for free accommodation. The situation is ideal, giving us a comfortable base, an income and the opportunity to truly live and experience this part of the country. The fact we're actually living here rather than travelling through is probably while I've neglected this blog a little. When you live somewhere, no matter how fascinating they are, the novelty of it all doesn't jump out in quite the same way. Not to say that this place isn't incredible, but it is surprisingly easy to fall into a trap whereby you take things for granted when you're surrounded by amazing places and experiences each day.

So, allow me to recollect some of the things we've done here! Well, once we'd been rafting (see my previous  blog entry), my thoughts immediately turned to the gnarled tracks of Redwoods mountain bike park. Probably the best mountain biking in the North Island can be had here, with hundreds of kilometres of trails woven between towering Sequoia trees planted at the beginning of the 20th century. Winding round the enormous girth of some vast trunks was just as impressive as the quality oft he tracks that coil into the forest. While some proved tricky, the majority of trails are pretty easy going, so make it good for people looking to push themselves, and taken at speed are great even for pros. Amy was comfortable enough riding many of the green and red trails, while I explored some of the more difficult routes - 'Rock Drop', 'Mad if You Don't' and 'Old Chevy' proving to be my favourites so far - but there are so many lines to take, it's unlikely I will manage to explore them all while I'm here. Needless to say, it has become a regular haunt of mine!

To avenge my insistence on taking her to Redwoods, Amy demanded that we try something she loves to do - horse riding. Rotorua is home to loads of trekking centres, and we eventually chose The Farmhouse, one of New Zealand's largest stables, situated just North of the city. My history with horses is limited, and came to a somewhat abrupt halt following a traumatic incident with a Shetland Pony when I was seven. I had ridden a horse once, for an hour, in the past fifteen years. So, when Amy told the guide that we were experienced and that she wanted to canter during the ride, I just smiled and laughed nervously. But when we got going, I quickly became more and more comfortable and confident. I was given a big cumbersome black mare, who seemed to eat anything at any opportunity she could, munching even as we plodded out on the trek. We were led through lush forest and expansive meadows and fields, bushland and tracks. The weather was pristine, and on the horizon we could see the formidable profile of Mt. Tarawera, a 3000ft dormant volcano rising from the lakes and rolling green hills. When our guide eventually asked if we would like to canter, I couldn't wait to give it a try. Our guide squeezed her heels into her horse's sides, and as her horse broke into a canter, Amy's and mine instinctively followed suit. I can honestly say that it was brilliant. My horse became surprisingly graceful, her long stride at speed was far more comfortable than at trot, and soon enough, I was willing my horse to go faster whenever I could. Amy knows I've caught the bug now, so I'm sure we'll be on horseback again before long.

The Kaituna

Of everything there is to do in and about Rotorua, the first thing we were desperate to experience was white water rafting on the Kaituna river. Amy had navigated the Zambezi during her time spent in Africa, so I was eager to give this a try myself. After a few days in the area we had it booked, and before we knew it, we were helmeted and paddled-up beside the water.

The group leader began by offering our respect for the river in Maori, a traditional prayer that would hopefully allow us safe passage as we journeyed the short but tumultuous stretch of river ahead. We launched the boats into a deceptively still area of water. Our raft leader was a guy called Jezza, a big bearded chap with a no-nonsense sense of humour, and a somewhat maniacal streak (a trait perhaps necessary for the job) and Amy and I were accompanied by another young couple and two chaps that barely seemed able to work our which end of a paddle to put in the water. After covering the basics, we found ourselves navigating the first series of rapids – proving surprisingly easy, but we soon came to our first major waterfall. The raft’s size meant we still managed the descent reassuringly easily, and we were able to relax as the river meandered slowly through peaceful stretches of rainforest. But the stillness was short-lived.

The blurred lip of Tutea Falls looms ahead.

The current quickly gathered pace, and after a few paddle strokes, Jezza directed the raft towards the right hand bank of the river and grabbed hold of a rope tied into the rockface. The edge of the Tutea Falls rumbled 30ft ahead of us, a foaming horizon where the black water narrowed and plunged 7 metres. “That thing on?” Jezza asked me, looking at my GoPro strapped around my helmet. “Hell yes”, I replied, trying to maintain an air of bravado. Jezza blew a whistle and waited for a reply from one of the leaders below the falls to ensure the plunge pool was clear. A few moments later, his whistle was echoed. The roar of the water was immense, but the faint sound was definite and rang like a firing-squad command. Jezza commanded us to paddle forward, and after a couple strokes yelled “GET DOWN!”. We braced ourselves, took as big a gulp of air as we could and held on tightly to the raft’s rope and handles.

I have no idea if I'm still in the raft at this point!

The next few moments are, unsurprisingly, hard to recount. We were suspended in free-fall, yet at the same time completely immersed in the tumbling water. There isn’t a moment when you realise that you’ve reached the pool below. Instead the weight of the furious water blurs the line between the surface and the depths below. In any case, at some point I was thrown out of the boat - my grip torn from the raft as it became submerged in the surf. As instructed, I tucked myself into a ball and felt myself being thrown around by the current, not knowing which way was up or down or when I might resurface. I hadn’t taken enough air in before the drop, what little wind within me was knocked out, and I hadn’t much idea what was going on.

After what felt like aeons, I felt fresh air on my face. The current had dragged me underneath the raft and belched me out at the far end of the plunge pool, to the whoops and hoots from the other rafters. Two others had been ejected as well, but had managed to climb aboard by the time I had found my senses. Amy had managed to hold on throughout, having to suffer Jezza’s insistence on surfing the churning water at the foot of the falls while I spluttered at the pool’s edge. After we’d all caught our breath, we clapped our paddles together in celebration – we’d just rafted the world’s tallest commercially raftable waterfall. 

I had my GoPro running through the whole thing, check the video out here!

Soaked and stoked.

The next few falls were child’s play by comparison, but the adrenaline rush of Tutea waterfall made the rest of the journey downriver awesome. We surfed more rapids, with Jezza ensuring the girls on the raft were made to experience the full might of the river by making them kneel at the front of the raft and dunking them beneath. Aside from a slightly pulled muscle in my left arm, we came away from the water with only immovable smiles on our faces.  What an experience!

We rafted with Kaitiaki Raft It!, and managed to get a 2 for 1 deal with Mad Travel.

Rotorua (to start with)

Hmm, where to begin? We've been in Rotorua for over two weeks now, and it has been a struggle to find time to write this!

As soon as we had our van back, we set out on the road to the Bay of Plenty instantly. The relief of having our van back and running without issue was immense, and we made full use of being able to pull up and sleep wherever we liked that night, stopping in a layby just above Rotorua. The next morning we head straight into the centre of the small city.

The high streets are more or less what you'd expect of any tourist town, with its share of souvenir shops innumerable, but its real treasures lay just beyond. Mountain biking, goethermal valleys, volcanos, white water rafting, white water sledging, kayaking, spas, mineral hot pools, Maori villages, skydiving, zorbing, luging, hiking... there is, quite simply, too much to do here. We quickly decided we wanted to stick around and experience this part of the country properly.

It was quickly apparent that the geothermal activity here is not exaggerated! The area sits atop a collection of calderas that form most of central North Island, with Lake Rotorua being the enormous crater of one. The earth's crust here is painfully thin, leading to countless geological marvels, each unique unto themselves.  Parts of the city are littered with steaming vents, bubbling pools or just vast holes in the ground belching out thick clouds of white steam. The effect isn't too dissimilar to a traction engine convention, only more eggy.

On the recommendation of the information centre, we headed to the Cosy Cottage Holiday Park for our first night in the city. After a warm welcome, the receptionist quickly drew our attention to the possibility of work here in exchange for accommodation. I’d expected there to be a bit of a job hunt, asking at campsites and hostels around town, but here was the first place we’d come to, and it was almost there for the taking! Sadly, the manager wasn’t in that day, and we were encouraged to come back a few days later and ask for him then. The chance to enjoy hot running water, showers and wash our clothes was a welcome relief, but what stood out about this campsite was the promise of thermal heated relaxation pools. All around the site, steam curled into the air; from drain grids, from the ditches on the edge. One corner of the campsite was fenced off because a pool of boiling mud 4 metres in diameter had settled in there with no intention of moving. Beside it was a Hangi (thermal steam oven), with pipes leading into the hot earth being the only power necessary to cook a perfect shoulder of lamb. Even the tent pitches were areas of grass warmed from beneath the ground – a luxury no doubt appreciated in the winter months, but sadly wasted on us in our van!

Part 2: Blights and Blessings

Hunua Ranges Regional Park rises from the peripheral towns of Auckland’s south-east, a bush-covered range of hills mirroring the Waitakere Ranges that overlook the north-west of the city. Barely half an hour’s drive from Manukau and through the satellite towns of Papakura and Clevedon, we turned a corner and laid eyes on the spectacularly inviting turquoise waters and chalky white coral sand beaches that edge the Firth of Thames. The weather had improved, and compared with the rugged wind-battered coast of Muriwai and Piha, the body of water in Kawakawa Bay was a millpond, protected from the open Pacific by the spinal peaks of the Coramandel Pensinsula on the horizon. We followed the coastline round, finding more empty picture-perfect beaches, and after traversing winding climbs and descents worthy of the Tour de France, we eventually came across a tiny campsite beside the sea, Tapapakanga.

Auckland’s regional parks are home to an abundance of little campsites littered amongst the hills and bays. Council-run, they cost $5 - $10 per night and are marvellous little escapist idylls. They’re not manned and maintained like a private holiday park, and the facilities are rarely beyond a long-drop and a tap for drinking water, but for small cost we had a beachfront campsite all to ourselves, barely seeing another soul for two days. An information board and phone with a direct line to a central office allow you to make your bookings, before a park ranger does their rounds late in the evening to ensure visitors have paid for the privilege. People pay thousands – even millions – on a private beach. We got ours for under £10. Tapakanga beach was long and white, a thin strip with shallow, clear blue waters one side and bright red, crumbling cliffs on the other. Giant ancient trees twisted their way into the rock face, clinging on for dear life, while the bleached skeletal remains of those trees unlucky to have already collapsed into the sea made the shoreline look Jurassic. We were in blissful solitude, sharing the beautiful surroundings with only each other, or so we thought…

Of all the things we left in the van while she was repaired, there is one item I bitterly regret forgetting: insect repellent. The local critters decided to make us acutely aware that we were not alone. After a few days amidst the wilderness, my feet had amassed a brutal collection of bites. Little black Sandflies had decimated my lower legs, while mosquitos made short work of making their presence known. All in all, I had over thirty bites. My blotchy, swollen feet looked like I was in suffering a bout of syphilis unfortunately coinciding with elephantiasis. If any of you reading this take only one lesson home from this entry, let it be this one: Sunscreen will save your life; Insect repellent will save your sanity. I’ve been itching non-stop since.

It had been a week since the van went back to the garage, so we called Dave again to see what progress had been made. He confirmed the worst-case scenario -  a blown head gasket – but assured us that the van would be ready for the following day. We spent the next night amongst the rolling bush of Hunua Ranges park, again with a campsite to ourselves, and visited nearby Hunua Falls the next morning. Sure enough we had the van back by the afternoon.

Sadly, I’d missed out on the travel writer opportunity in Napier, but I wasn’t resentful. We had no commitments again, so after a moment of deliberation we decided our next stop should be the steamy thermal town of Rotorua, and finally hit the road.

Part 1: Blow-out

Setting out on this journey, I knew some things would come to test our strength of character. But I hadn’t counted on these trials coming so soon.

If we’ve learnt one thing quicker than anything else, it’s that New Zealand is not a cheap place to visit. After the initial purchase of the van and all its necessary tranklements, we soon realised that we could do with a job sooner rather than later. Many jobs suitable for backpackers are posted on an invaluable website, and within moments I’d found my ideal job: Travel Writer and Researcher. While the position wasn’t paid, it instead promised a roof and bed, laundry and some comfortable living. Based in Napier, a city at the far south-eastern corner of the North Island, the accommodation was to be provided in the form of a converted old prison on the seafront – a quirky chance to call a jail cell ‘home’, and could give us the chance to explore the vineyards and coastline of Hawkes Bay, so I drafted a quick cover email and applied immediately. Within moments, I had a reply, “When can you start?”.

So, remember the van I told you about in my last post? Our ‘awesome’ van? Well, it turned out that its awesomeness was little more than a façade. Little over an hour after I had posted my previous blog entry, our mobile home came to a steaming halt on the side of the motorway as we hoped to leave the Auckland region for pastures new. So much for paying that extra cash for our peace of mind. Immediately, we called the guy we bought it from, as we had certainly not put the vehicle through its paces in the few days we’d had her. Thankfully, it had turned out we’d bought from a good dealer; that extra cash wasn’t completely lost. He apologetically arranged for a tow back to his garage, and we soon found ourselves amongst the warehouses, cheap motels and car dealerships of on the edge Manukau.

At first, Dave’s prognosis seemed fairly optimistic. “Oh, it’s probably a couple of valves that have just seen better days. It should be ready for ya by tomorrow”. He lent us his Volvo estate as courtesy car, and we turned back to Matt and Fiona’s with our tails between our legs. With Dave’s optimism fresh in our minds, we headed back to Manukau late the following afternoon, but the 24 hours had seen Dave’s chirpy diagnosis become rather more solemn. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but ya van is… dying” he said, trying to hold back tears. “I’m sorry for ya loss”. And with that, he collapsed into hysterical weeping.

Okay, so it wasn’t that bad, but it was decidedly worse than a seized valve. It turned out that it could be a blocked radiator, or failing that, the head gasket had blown-out. I’m not a mechanical man, but I know that either of those aren’t good and generally mean a much lighter wallet on the horizon, potentially even a write-off. But Dave assured us that he would cover the cost of any work done, seemingly ashamed that he’d sold a faulty vehicle. Trundling away in the Volvo, we resigned ourselves to the tiny two-man tent I’d brought with us as an emergency back-up, and we found the nearest campsite.

After a couple of days and no update on the van’s condition, we realised that this gave us the opportunity to explore areas that we would have otherwise passed by. Initially, we headed out west again, visiting a windy Waikato beach. The shoreline shared the same black sand found on Piha and Muriwai, but the wind tore the surf to shreds and the cloud cover made sunbathing or swimming unappealing so we didn’t linger. The drive over, however, took us to our first Lord of the Rings film location. The karst limestone scenery nestled behind the seafront cliffs provided the backdrop of the Weathertop set, but identifying the actual rocky prominence of the set amongst the white crags and rocky crenulations seemed impossible. With our morale dampened and the likelihood that we weren’t going to get the van back in the next few days, we decided to take our chances and head out to the east coast for a change.

Auckland, Wheels and the Ranges

Finally, after a week of scouring Auckland's second hand car auctions, markets and Trademe.co.nz, we have ourselves a campervan. A 1992 Mitsubishi Delica to be precise -  a decorator's old van, splattered with emulsion, its doors not without their dents, and containing a roughly-hewn bed frame and mattress in the back. It's not luxury living, but at the least it's a space we can call our home as we make our way around the country.

But the search certainly hasn't been without its benefits. With a trusty A-to-Z, we have criss-crossed the city and can now say we know Auckland like the back of our hand. It's a unique metropolis. Sandwiched between two harbours, it sits on a narrow land bridge, framed by forested hills to the north and an iconic harbour bridge to the east, and all of it is dominated by the futuristic concrete spire of the Sky Tower, reaching from the heart of the city. While the centre itself is far more administrative than anything else, the edges of the city - the harbour with its countless yacht sails and rich seafood market, or the northern seafront lined by the Cloud complex, provide far more tourist interest. Boat trips out to the nearby island nature reserves of Rangitoto and Motutapo thrive on the fringes of the main harbour, beside charming 19th century buildings that echo the city's past as New Zealand's old capital. 

One thing the city is not short of is food. Auckland is a rich multicultural hub drawing a fusion of every kind of cooking from the world over, and although there isn't a lot of shopping to be done in the centre, there is no scarcity of places to eat. After hungered deliberation, we eventually decided to eat at the Waterfront Cafe, situated by the water's edge, beside the Maritime Museum. Despite being on a tight budget, we enjoyed a magnificent creamy chowder for only $17. Tummies full, we made our way to the Sky Tower, but while the prospect of flinging ourselves off the 328m high building appealed, the chowder made sure we would save it for another day.

Our hunt for for a vehicle went on, and took us to Manukau - a district towards the south of city. While most of the area is unremarkable - comprised mainly of garages, suburbs and car markets - the place is home to the glorious Auckland Regional Botantic Gardens, a swathe of parkland celebrating the diversity of the island nation's plant life, but also a reminder of the threats that many native species here face. 

Anyway, we found a van. An awesome van. The week of hunting gave us the chance needed to gauge what we could get for our money and buy from a trustworthy source. We ended up paying $3250 - admittedly rather higher than I had budgeted for - but with it came the assurance of a fresh Warranty of Fitness (or WOF, the NZ equivalent of an MOT), a fresh service and younger model than other vans we had seen for a similar price bracket (1992 may sound old, but the vehicles here aren't subject to the same ravages of salt and rust as in the UK). After a couple of days cleaning her up, kitting her out, and expelling the resident ant colony from beneath the passenger seat, she was ready to roll. Amy, Fiona and Olivia had replaced the garish olive green and fuchsia pink floral curtains with new blue ones crafted from an old besheet, while Matt and I tightened up a wing mirror with a piece of wetsuit, true surfer-van style.

Spending our first night in the van at Muriwai beach (we kept it local to start with), we decided to explore the Waitakere Ranges Regional Park properly, taking Scenic Drive right through the rainforest to Piha, a community on the steep hillsides where the rainforests drop down and meet the Tasman sea. The winding road snaked through kilometres of dense vegetation, and when the chance to explore it and stretch our legs came, we quickly took it up. As we rounded yet another hairpin bend, we spotted a sign for 'Fairy Falls' - a blink-and-you-miss-it entrance to a well-made pathway that takes you under the canopy of palm fronds, tree ferns and vines. After half an hour of walking, the rush of running water became louder, and the path began to descend deeper in the valley, suddenly opening up to a spectacular, paradisaical cascade. The ascent back to the car was taxing in the humidity, but well worth it.

The road wound its way some more through the rainforest before the trees quickly opened out to the coast - beaches of black sand interrupted by the volcanic monolith of Lion Rock set right in the middle of the bay. Though famed for its consistent surf, the swell had apparently decided to have a rest for our time there. We spent our first night of freedom camping there, and apart from getting the van stuck in stuck in sand and having to be dug out by locals, it was altogether rather successful. Waking to drizzle and decimated by mosquito bites, we climbed the precarious walkway up Lion Rock the following morning to take in the majesty of the bay, with it's gnarled, crumbling rock faces staring out into the grey sea, or looking back at the endless hills of rainforest behind. Even in the miserable drizzle, it was glorious.

Post I, Arrival

Well, here it is, my first post from the Land of the Long White Cloud.

The sun sets over a darkening Indian Ocean

After an exhausting but smooth 36-hour journey halfway across the Earth via Dubai, Kuala Lumpur and Melbourne, the white-watered shores of the North Island's battered western coast came into view - a sight I've been awaiting for years.

Bleary-eyed, we stumbled through the most friendly customs and excise department in the world (they seemed more interested in my Martin Backpackers' guitar than anything else), and were greeted by our hosts at the airport - Matt and his daughter Olivia - friends of Amy's father who had relocated to this part of the world 9 years ago.

We could soon see why they'd chosen to resettle here. As we drove north from the airport and out of Auckland on one of the country's few motorways, the landscape opened up to vast expanses of green rolling hills, streaked with a weave of vineyards and a lush mix of temperate and tropical trees. Matt tried to point out where we were as we made our way to his house, but with a combination of unfamiliar-sounding place names, awestruck gawping, and extreme tiredness, it was wasted on me. With the sun in the wrong part of the sky, I could barely register which direction we were headed.

Matt and Fiona's beautiful house

Eventually Matt turned off the main road, the car crunched up a roughly surfaced lane that wound its way into the hillside, and we finally reached his beautiful house overlooking the valley. The first thing that struck me was the space here. The garden was massive, edged by fields, woodland and a stunning view. Even the next door neighbour was a blissfully detached two hundred yards away.
After a warm welcome from the rest of Matt's family, we enjoyed a wonderful homemade meal made by his wife Fiona - a relief from the impersonal plane food of the past couple of days, and with the comfort of a real bed we crashed for the night.

The following morning we were woken by a combination of sunlight and birdsong to a clear sky, and wasted no time in venturing to the right-of-passage for most people looking to trundle around New Zealand in a campervan: Ellerslie car auction. Ellerslie was a name that had cropped up a lot whenever I discussed our plans for this trip. It seemed to be a Mecca if you were looking for a cheap van to kit out and customise as you wish, and perhaps a few years ago it was, but it was obvious that there was a proliferation of those looking to exploit the market of wide-eyed travellers excited to get a set of wheels and home - we were obvious and easy targets, and we found it hard to part with $3000 for a 20-odd year old people carrier with a checkered history and a smelly mattress in the back (At the time of writing, we still haven't settled on one).

Muriwai: an endless empty coastline with powerful surf.

The idyllic weather that afternoon gave Matt the opportunity to show off one of the North Auckland's most beautiful features: Muruwai Beach. Located on the edge of the forested hills of the Waitakere Ranges national park, the beach lies at the end of an unbroken 90km strip black volcanic sand - an exposed clue to the tumultuous creation of the undulating terrain found inland. As a surfer, my attention was immediately drawn to the heavy swell that buffeted the beach. For UK standards, the waves were pumping, and would have probably drawn waveriders from all over the country; but Matt's son, Miles, who lifeguards at this beach made it pretty clear that this was nothing - despite the fact that surfers out back were being barrelled easily - and that the waves were routinely twice or three times as big. The jet-lag making itself known, I avoided the surf and instead went for a cheeky swim.

After drying out, we were led to the Muriwai headland - a projection of igneous cliffs carved into soft layers by the mighty waves, forming caves, ledges and blowholes, each topped with the resident colony of Gannets - one of the largest in the country - giving the stone towers an icing-white topping of courting birds, mating birds, and guano. A walkway led over and above the Gannets, giving vantage points over the colony on the mainland, and those on a nearby stack, Sugar Loaf Rock.

Having only been here a matter of moments, it's already obvious that even this small corner has a lot to offer. From the tapestry of vineyards that quilt the countryside, to the tangle of footpaths of Waitekere and the thunderous white horses that strike the coastline, it is clear we have a lot more exploring to do.

View New Zealand Journey! in a larger map

Preface...

Hello, and welcome to my blog. In forty-four days, I will be on t'other side o' world, dropping the honest Yorkshirian apostrophication for an Australasian twang. The idea behind this, in its most basic form, is to keep everyone updated as I bumble around the Antipodes armed with little more than my travel guitar, my GoPro camera and my girlfriend, Amy. Whether this plan is kept to, we will have to wait and see, but therein lies my intention.

Rather like the creepy girl in The Ring, I've spent my time since graduating desperately trying to claw my way out of the dark well of my student finances; and now, after living on the breadline and beneath for two years or so, I'm finally making a bid for freedom and buggering off to New Zealand. 


Flying to Auckland at the end of October, we will be leaving behind our wonderful families, friends and our beloved hound, Prince. I'll be kissing goodbye to my guitars and bikes; Amy will be abandoning her memory-foam pillow and extensive wardrobe as we voyage in search of a summer that actually delivers what summer should; warmth, sunshine, and a killer tan - characteristics that the past few months have decidedly failed to provide this year, but are generally guaranteed from December to March on Te Ika-a-Māui [you watch; I've jinxed it now].


I'm under no illusions though; I'm not expecting some Shangri-La-esque utopia - I know it still rains over there, I know that parts are still reeling from the devastation of tectonics and I know it's had the same economic woe felt in the UK. But I also know that going to a beautiful country that covers a similar area but has only a fraction of the population of Britain can only be a good thing.


We haven't got a route mapped. We don't know where we want to go yet and we haven't got a time frame besides our one-year visa, so I don't want to speculate what we're going to do, where we're going to be and when. 


This is truly going to be an adventure, and one I am itching to begin. 


Mike