Coffee Homeground

 There are few things in life as highly anticipated but so frequently underwhelming as a cup of coffee.

For a beverage so widely consumed and so long ago introduced to mankind’s palate, it is remarkable that the experience of drinking the stuff is so often a disappointment. I am aware that this view might open me up to accusations of coffee snobbery, but if that is the case, then so be it. At its best, coffee is something worth getting out of bed for; a smell to set nasal hairs quivering; a taste that can transform a bleak morning into a bearable one. And yet, despite it being now a multi-billion dollar global industry, the hit-to-miss ratio of a commercially prepared brew weighs heavily with the latter. We deserve better.

Thank god, then, for New Zealand, a country which prides itself on serving up good coffee with the same devout enthusiasm that we Brits do a voluminously headed pint of beer.

Ironically, I first became aware of the Kiwis’ mastery of coffee-making during my last days in London, where a handful of upstart Antipodeans – no doubt sick to the stomach of the lazy muck being served up by the locals - opened cafes that provided exemplary espressos and pretty much invented the Flat White for the British market.

My personal coffee requirements are simple. There is no fannying around with milk or syrups or cocoa powder. I have my coffee served black and strong; an espresso topped up with a dash of hot water. It therefore makes it very easy for me to compare coffee from different outlets, and I grew to be particularly discerning of the finest purveyors during my five and a half years in London, where my routine entailed the purchase of at least two takeaway cups a day. 

 

As anyone who has spent any degree of time there will know, the UK coffee market is dominated largely by corporate chains, kingpin of which is the ubiquitous Starbucks. For a company whose very raise d’etre is coffee, it is startling to find just how nondescript its core product is. A standard black filter coffee from Starbucks, while just about drinkable, is almost invariably too watery, and lacks all of the craft and expertise you’d hope to associate with a market leader. Selling exclusive albums by Paul McCartney is not enough to disguise the fact that what should be the mainstay of Starbucks’ business is dismally substandard. Homegrown chain Costa is no better, and while (non authentic) Italian-style Caffe Nero offers better coffee, it is clear when walking into one of their outlets that food and frappuccinos are their primary concerns.

Coffee from outside of the big chains can vary wildly. London, inevitably, has its fair share of quality coffee houses, including on-site roasting Monmouth, the benchmark by which any self-respecting coffee outlet should judge itself. But the good ones are all but drowned out by cafes for whom coffee appears little more than an apologetic afterthought to the ‘sandwich of the day’, and ‘greasy spoons’ that have long since lost their kitsch value and should politely be pointed in the direction of the 21^st century. Outside of London, things can be even worse, as I discovered on a recent trip to my homeland, my first since I first left for New Zealand two years ago. (Blimey, has it really been that long?)

 

I recall one particular occasion the morning after a good friend’s wedding, when Holly and I, having shamefully slept through the newlyweds’ breakfast banquet, departed the rural venue in search of a hangover-curing fry up and, of course, a good cup of coffee. Arriving in the historic market town of Newark, I probably should have known better than to be lured in by the offbeat exterior of an independent coffee shop in the main square, rather than opt for the neighbouring Starbucks, where we would at least have been guaranteed a vaguely palatable brew. Sadly, this bastion of sovereignty in a mush of clone stores and shops proved to be an almighty disappointment. Not only did the coffee taste like it had been made with freeze-dried powder, but my so desperately needed sausage sandwich, having taken a good twenty-five minutes to arrive, resembled a char-grilled finger in a cardboard banana skin.

There were many wonderful things about being back home and surrounded by familiar sights and sounds, but the dearth of decent coffee was definitely not one of them. Of course, I have been spoiled rotten by the New Zealand coffee scene, which I venture must be one of the world’s finest. France and Italy might deliver a fist class espresso, but New Zealand is the first place I’ve been where my favoured strong black coffee is served close to perfection wherever I go. From the hippest Auckland café bar to the dirtiest roadside cafe, the coffee is of an exceptionally high quality here, and it’s made by people who clearly care about what they’re handing out to their patrons.

Rather than being jobbing students (as they often seem to be in the UK), the staff who make your coffee in a typical New Zealand café are more than likely trained baristas who take a professional pride in their craft. I don’t ever order Flat Whites for myself, but I always enjoy watching a skilled barista making one as I wait for my Long Black. Ah yes, the Long Black, a coffee option that is inexplicably absent from UK café menus. A Long Black is exactly what I want my coffee to be: a strong, dark espresso shot topped up with a modicum of freshly boiled water. Takeaway versions can sometimes disappoint as the volume of added water is dictated by the barista rather than the customer, but when sitting in, the water is usually provided separately in a metal jug, allowing you to strike the balance required by your tastes.

When back home, I was so frustrated by bland, over-diluted black coffees that I took it upon myself to dictate the composition of the cup I was handing over unfavorably converted British Pounds for, requesting ‘an espresso with a little top of water’ to multiple raised eyebrows. If and when I am living back in Britain again permanently, I plan to make it my mission to bring decent coffee to the masses. For a nation practically weaned on the stuff, we appear to be frustratingly apathetic when it comes to demanding quality in exchange for our hard-earned cash. In the same way that over the past decade we have insisted on better food in our pubs, a greater choice of fruit and vegetables in our supermarkets, and more top end restaurants in our cities, we should say a collective “good riddance” to the scourge of bad coffee in our country and start a Long Black revolution. Who’s with me?

To conclude this blog, here are 5 of my favourite Auckland cafes, notable, in particular, for their expert takes on the dark stuff:

1. Marcello’s, College Hill. ‘Service with a smile’ is putting it mildly. Marcello the Italian is one of the friendliest café proprietors I have encountered anywhere and his coffee is every bit as good as his behind-the-counter patter. 

2. Queenies, Spring Street. Royalty themed oddity, tucked away on a side street behind Victoria Park. The Long Blacks are so good here I usually order two when I’m having breakfast (the Egg & Bacon Sammie is to die for). 

3. One 2 One, Ponsonby Road. A great spot for an afternoon tea. Coffee + homemade muffin + courtyard seating = heaven. 

4. Atomic, New North Road. These guys roast on site and you can smell the goodness of the beans a mile away. Sit in, drink and marvel at the bedazzling array of coffee roasting tech, surrounded with hessian bags over-spilling with beans. 

5. The Pah Homestead, Monte Cecilia Park. Auckland’s best kept secret: fine coffee and food in the glorious surroundings of an old colonial manor house converted into a café / art gallery in the middle of gorgeous undulating parkland. 

Jonny

Wined and Dined

Working life in Auckland has felt so consuming of late that it’s become easy to forget that my main motivation for moving to the other side of the planet (apart from the missus, obviously) was to experience new people and places and explore sights and scenery unique to this faraway isle. With a meager twenty days of annual leave to escape the trials of The Office - and most of this year’s allocation reserved for a trip back to the UK - I have been relying more than ever on public holidays and their consequent long weekends for opportunities to travel and tick off the ‘must sees’ from my indispensable Rough Guide to NZ. 

            This year, we took full advantage of Easter to undertake one of the great Kiwi road trips, from Auckland to Napier. While many of my plaudits in these blogs have been reserved for the scenic grandeur of the South Island, large swathes of the North have remained unexplored during my time here to date, and I was grateful for the chance to spend three days in the Hawke’s Bay area over the mood-brightening four day weekend.

            As is often the case in NZ, the journey there was every bit as intoxicating as the destination. It was not a quick route though, and we spent much of Good Friday on the road as we traveled, first, down through the Waikato and across to Lake Taupo, and then down along the remote pass linking the Central North Island to Napier on the east coast. The final two hours of the drive were carved through thickly forested mountains, with vast stretches of wilderness broken only by the occasional farm and roadside cabin. Emerging, at long last, into the Bay was one of those classic awe-striking moments you never tire of in this country, as the road opened up suddenly and a crystalline seascape surged dazzlingly into view.  

            I found Napier, the cultural heart of Hawke’s Bay, to be an intriguing place, one quite unlike anywhere else I have visited in New Zealand. It has something of the faded seaside glamour of the French towns that line the coast of the northern Mediterranean, but its Art Deco buildings, designed in a statement of the contemporary architectural zeitgeist after a devastating earthquake in the 1920s, can’t help but recall New York. In reality, Napier is not as hip or happening as either, though our timing was unfortunate, our visit coinciding not only with an Easter exodus of the locals, but some unusually dreary weather too. 

I was startled to learn on this trip that New Zealand - surely one of the world’s most secular countries - has peculiarly strict rules regarding alcohol consumption on days of religious festivity. Arriving as dusk was falling on Good Friday, our plan had been to relieve tired car-stiff bodies with a couple of drinks in a central pub before undertaking a recce of the local eateries for dinner. Unfortunately, as we strolled through the muted streets, we quickly discovered that most of the Rough Guide recommended establishments were closed, and those that were open were not allowed to serve you booze without a meal to accompany it. Consequently, we had little choice but to dine much earlier than we would have liked, and at a restaurant that, were it not for the dearth of options, we probably would have sidestepped on another night.

Despite the rain and rather subdued atmosphere, Napier was not without its charms. The Art Deco facades, though small in scale compared to their architypes across the Pacific, were fascinating to behold, the uniformly stylized streets a novelty in a country that usually prides itself on the diversity of its buildings. On Easter Saturday, which was ‘business as usual’ compared to the public holidays falling either side, we were heartened to discover some decent eateries, highlighted by excellent coffee and eggs benedict at the motley Ujazi café, and the modern strip of waterfront bars and pubs in the trendy suburb of Ahuriri, which offsets an impassive industrial skyline with pretty rows of moored yachts. The outlook from the summit of one of the city’s highest hills afforded us a glorious twilight view down over the freight shipping harbour, with the flickering lights of distant ocean liners providing the only counterpoint to the dark expanse of the Pacific. 

            For me, the highlight of the trip was not Napier itself, but a day spent driving through the surrounding countryside and visiting the many wineries that have made the name of Hawke’s Bay an omnipresent in every British supermarket. Dotted around a landscape of undulating valleys and steep ridges, the vineyards and their accompanying facilities provided a visual as well as sensory feast. Some of the architecture on display was very impressive, with more modern structures of stone and glass demonstrating that the Art Deco isn’t the only building style worth coming to the area for. 

            Of course, the real test of quality is a winery’s alcoholic output and we were delighted to discover that most of the estates offered free tastings, suggesting a confidence that the majority of customers wouldn’t be able to resist purchasing at least one full bottle. So it proved for us, but the wine was of such a universal high standard that we struggled to select our favourites and ended up making some quite random choices. Elephant Hill at Te Awanga would be our special pick, with a fine selection of wines to be sampled in a modern setting perfectly attuned to the glorious views it offers out over the surrounding hills and of the iconic Te Mata peak. If you’re not short on time, I’d also recommend driving to the summit of the Peak itself, where you can admire from on high the epic sprawl of the vine-mottled landscape. 

            Slinking our way back to Napier after a day exploring the bucolic scenery around it, we couldn’t resist a peek inside a roadside antique shop over-spilling with flotsam and jetsam. What was most intriguing though was the proprietor, an Englishman whose 40 years in New Zealand – so it transpired – had failed to dull his thick cockney accent and East End market patter. This little reminder of home in the most unlikely of places was enough to sway us to purchase a tatty painting from him, though I think we both questioned its appeal once the sentimentality had shaken off.

            Back in the town, we retired for a final night in Criterion Backpackers, a hostel we’d chosen more because of its funky Art Deco stylings than the quality of its rooms. In retrospect, this was something of an error, as ours was dull and musty to the point of being disagreeable and some of the clientele lurking in the communal areas made us feel less than comfortable. Still, it would be churlish to criticize somewhere that unashamedly pitches itself as budget accommodation and the management shouldn’t be held responsible for the occasional oddball arriving through their doors.

            The weather and Easter shut-down meant we left Hawke’s Bay with somewhat mixed feelings but there was enough left unexplored to warrant a return visit at some point and I imagine in sunnier times Napier might just pull off the illusion of a dreamy resort on the coast of Provence…

Jonny

Mountains Beyond Mountains

Milford Sound. What a wonderfully sonorous name; a title befitting one of the world’s great natural wonders.

For me, the place has been a bit like buses. You wait years for one to show, and then two turn up at once. But if there was anywhere in the world you'd want to visit twice in quick succession, Milford Sound would surely be it. Certainly, of all the items on the New Zealand ‘to do’ list I drew up when I first came here, visiting the Fiords in the South Island was the one I was most excited about.
           It’s easy to get blasé about spectacular scenery when it’s as ubiquitous as it is here, but I could see from the pictures that Milford was something extra special, a place where the drama of nature is played out on a vast scale and visitors are reduced to awe-struck spectators. Had it been anything less special, I might have had second thoughts about devoting ten hours of driving time to getting there and back, for it is definitely not the most accessible of sights and steadfastly refuses to bow to any tourist. Which is exactly as it should be, of course. If there is anything that spoils the idyll of England’s countryside, it is the ever-present buzz of motorway traffic, which makes it near impossible to lose yourself in the bucolic arcadia the travel guides would have you believe it is. Milford might be a bugger of a place to reach, but when you’ve made the five hour trip by car from Queenstown – amazingly, the closest significant settlement – you’re rewarded with one of the most pristinely kept pieces of world famous natural landscape you’re ever likely to encounter.
           Apart from the grand prize of Milford Sound itself, the other motivator for taking the long-winded drive from Queenstown was the promise of stunning vistas en route. Our only real concern ahead of the trip in early January was the weather, as we’d read that rain and mist descend on Milford at least half of the year and the last thing we wanted was to travel all that way to find the views obscured by clouds. But the omens were good as we set off early that morning, thick rays of sunshine bursting out from behind the mountains at the head of the lake our Queenstown apartment looked out over. The first couple of hours of our drive were no less promising, the clear blue skies offering a startling contrast to the parched yellows and greens of the sun-sapped Otago countryside. By the time we reached the small township of Te Anau at the rough mid-point of our journey, however, a layer of fluffy white clouds had all but sealed off the blue sky from view and we began to fear the worst. Fuelled with a local café’s closest approximation to a full English breakfast (no baked beans or black pudding, yet again), we pressed on deeper into mountainous territory, rain flickering sporadically on our rental car’s windscreen.

            Despite the murky atmosphere, we were still able to marvel at the scenery, for even cloud-dressed mountains can provide an imperious spectacle. The landscapes on this section of the journey were rather different to those in Otago, the grassy tussock fields and tree-lined hills giving way to barren rock and snow-crested peaks. The final stretch to Milford began with entry to the Homer Tunnel, bored by some ingenious group of long-departed settlers straight through the mountain that separates the Eglinton Valley from the Hollyford Rivers. Traffic lights insisted we wait at the portal of the one-way tunnel for a good twenty minutes, but we were grateful for the break as it allowed us to pause and gaze up at the awesome surrounding mountains, which rose up violently like the palisades of a Tolkein fortress. After the tunnel, the views became even more magnificent, our car a mere ant in the presence of these vast creatures of rock and ice.  

            And then, the entrance to Milford Sound announced itself. There was an insistent drizzle now and foggy clouds hung low in the air. We feared a wasted journey until we actually saw the thing, for though the mist and rain heavily obscured the peaks of the mountains, they lent the place an otherworldly atmosphere that provided a different but no less beguiling impression to the clear-skied one you see in all the guidebooks. Standing at the foot of the Sound with feverishly clicking cameras, we studied an eerie wilderness. Hulking rock surged sheer out of gloomy water. Twisting trees climbed from rocky outcrops as if to greet the waterfalls that coursed down above them. And far above, white veils hovered impassively across spiring peaks.  

            We hadn’t come all this way just to stand and gawp though. The main draw was a ferry cruise along the Sound and out to the edge of the Tasman Sea. It was a cold and blustery afternoon and we felt like we were light years away from the blazing summer we’d left behind in Queenstown. Lucky, then, that our ferry tickets came with the promise of free tea and coffee, which we gratefully received.

            Standing on deck, we braved the wet and chill to make the most of the incredible views. As one of the ship’s attendants comfortingly informed us, rain and cloud did not have to be barriers to our enjoyment of Milford, for they not only afforded the place a distinct mien, but also ensured that the sequence of dizzying waterfalls cascading down right along the Sound were in full force. Clear days give you sight of the tops of the mountains, but the falls can dry up altogether, he explained. We were more appreciative after this, and even more so when the ferry became surrounded by some curious bottlenose dolphins. How wonderful that humans weren’t the only tourists to enjoy these majestic mountains. Another feast of wildlife soon presented itself when the skipper moored us a few meters away from a small colony of fur seals lolling on a rocky platform about halfway up the Sound. While the remoteness and sheerness of the mountains made Milford impossible for man to inhabit, it was pleasing to see that other species had no such issues making it their home. The lucky bastards.   

After about 45 minutes, we reached the furthest point of our journey as the ferry neared the entrance to the Tasman Sea. By this point, the steep-sided mountains of the inner Sound had become smaller protrusions of rock tailing out into the ocean. The waves chopped vigorously around us as we circled around the lip of the Sound before turning and heading back to our starting point, the ferry stopping only to sit for a moment with its bow nuzzling right beneath one of the larger waterfalls. 

After an hour and a half, our cruise drifted to an end and we trudged back to our car from the ferry terminal inspired, undoubtedly, by the sublime scenery we’d just encountered, but just a little bit irked that we had another 5 hour drive ahead of us. Just as well, then, that the gloom began to lift soon after we departed Milford and the mountain tops, formerly obscured by puffy clouds, were at last revealed to us. It was frustrating that we’d not been able to experience the Sound itself in this mist-free state, but we were grateful for the glorious views we were blessed with all the way back to Queenstown. One particular spot en route was in some ways even more magnificent than Milford, and we pulled over to experience it in the open air, rather than from the cramped confines of our vehicle. Sometimes words can’t do justice to scenes such as this so on this occasion I’ll use a photo to fire your imaginations instead:

My second trip to Milford came about in rather different circumstances. In March, my dad and brother made the long journey down from the UK to visit me in my adopted home country. As they were only going to be here a couple of weeks, the pressure was on to ensure that they experienced the very best that New Zealand has to offer. This, of course, meant a return visit to Queenstown and Milford only a couple of months on from my previous expedition. Thankfully, my family were not particularly keen on the idea of a ten hour drive, so instead we decided to splash out on the less circuitous route provided by the light aircraft operators that can fly you from Queenstown to Milford in less than an hour. Though this was a significantly higher-cost option, we felt a much shorter journey time, coupled with the promise of even more spectacular views, would be well worth paying for.

What I didn’t appreciate beforehand was that there was a hidden cost to these flights – one that should have been itemised on the receipt as “panic attack” in between the dollar cost and tax. Now, you will know from my previous blog that me and heights have never been the best of friends, but despite this I had never had any real issues with flying, even when I found myself at the controls of an RAF jet during my misspent school years in the Combined Cadet Force. Consequently, I barely twitched at the prospect of flying over mountains in a plane no larger than a limousine and was certainly not afflicted by “the fear” in the way I had been before my rope swinging episode in Costa Rica. That was just as well, for had I know how shit-yer-pants scary the flight was going to be, I may never have signed up for it in the first place.

My faintheartedness on this occasion stemmed not so much from the height of the aircraft as from its sheer flimsiness, coupled with the realization that only a few centimeters of metal separated me from one of those dreaded (and, on this occasion, almost certainly fatal) freefalls. Indeed, I probably would have felt safer if we had been higher up, for it was our seeming proximity to the mountains beneath us that really got to me, particularly when we experienced a bout of turbulence that lurched us around with such intensity that my poor father hit his head on an air conditioning nozzle. Our pilot, who, in fairness, was extremely professional and reassuring throughout, seemed quite proud of the fact that one of his passengers had drawn a thin trickle of blood from his scalp – apparently the first time this had happened in his professional career.

The pay-off for all this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see some of New Zealand’s most remote and inhospitable environs. While the drive to Milford Sound on my previous trip had been almost impossibly scenic, the flight made me feel even more paltry next to the awesome landscapes the Earth had carved out beneath us. Flying beyond the northernmost reaches of Lake Wakatipu’s crisp turquoise expanse, we spent the final half hour of the flight traversing a vast tranche of mountainous wilderness. From this height, it appeared like a study of petrified violence, the rock contorted in great twisting grimaces, mollified only by the snowy brushstrokes daubing occasional peaks. Most remarkable were the lucent blue lakes that had formed in troughs so high and so remote that it is likely no human has ever doused a toe in them. So though I spent the entire journey clinging onto the seat in front with clammy paws, I felt incredibly privileged to be so close to such an inhospitable terrain. 

The final leg of the flight took us up and over one last ridge of mountains and out over the open sea, before heading back in land straight up the mouth of Milford Sound itself and coming to rest at the same terminal where our ferry had departed for its scenic cruise back in January. The weather could not have offered a sharper contrast to the day of our first visit. This time, the sky was blotched with only the faintest wisps of cloud, so the tops of the mountains were clearly defined and the Sound’s highest point, Mitre Peak, was now revealed in all its kingly glory. As we had learnt on our first trip, the absence of rain meant that many of the waterfalls had all but dried up, but being able to admire the full panorama of the Sound sparkling in the midday sun was in many ways even more thrilling. In any case, some of the larger falls were still in full flight, including the aptly named ‘Angel Falls’, whose cascades, in this light, shimmered with a startling rainbow effect that recalled, perhaps more than anything else I’ve seen in New Zealand, the fantasy land of Middle Earth. 

Returning to Queenstown along a different flight path that offered up yet more confounding scenery - as well as another significant dose of sweaty trepidation - I mulled on New Zealand’s ongoing ability to inspire awe and wonder. Though the not-insubstantial dollars exchanged for the flight suggested that this trip might well be the pinnacle of what the country has to offer as far as eye-popping vistas are concerned, I have thought as much before and been proven wrong. But even if nothing else here comes to match the sheer scale and spendor of Milford Sound, I'm unlikely to forget the blood, sweat and fears of those two very different visits in the summer of 2012.

Jonny

As High As You Can Go

I didn’t think there was a chance in hell I’d actually go through with it.

The preceding sections of the Costa Rica rainforest canopy tour, which had involved me zip-lining across epic tree-lined valleys several hundreds meters in the air, had straddled the thin line between wondrous exhilaration and abject terror. The bit where they lowered me at great speed from a treetop platform on the end of a dangling cable I had only just survived with the contents of my bowels intact. But this, a humungous rope swing entailing a 20 metre free-fall, this brought a whole new level of fear.  

We were instructed to queue along a curling pathway that came to abrupt end with a precipitous ledge some 60 feet above the ground. While I probably should have adopted the old mantra “let’s get it over with”, I instead hovered awkwardly at the back of the line and watched as the other members of my group proceeded to launch themselves from this overhanging shelf one by valiant one and swing back and forth through the forest ceiling like enormous pendulums. Some would scream; others remained curiously silent as they fell. I, for wont of a better expression, was bricking it. As my turn drew closer, my heart began to beat faster and faster. I tried to assess if there might be a way out of it but there appeared to be no other way down and, to be completely honest, I wasn’t prepared to lose face in front of my two accompanying friends, particularly as they had been some of the first to complete their jumps with seemingly wild abandon. 

So, the moment came. I stood there on the edge of the platform in a strange blur of not-really-happening, and peered fleetingly downwards. It was a bloody big drop, there was no getting around it. Those who had already completed the swing looked back up at me from the ground below and I could just about make out encouraging smiles, but the haziness of their faces only served to illustrate how sickeningly far down they were. To make matters worse, the instructors whose job it was to attach our harnesses to the rope, appeared to be barely older than children. Was I really prepared to put my life in the hands of a bunch of 12 year olds who didn’t even speak my language?

Yes, it seems. For I realised pretty quickly that my instincts of self-preservation would never allow me to initiate the jump myself, and the instructors must have sensed this, for no sooner had they attached my harness to the end of the rope that they had kicked my legs from under me, laughing maniacally, and I was falling, in all my clammy white-fleshed glory, to my untimely death. 

Except that I wasn’t. Instead, I was travelling upwards, the rope having kicked in at the vital moment, and carrying me high, high up into the treetops. The trouser-soiling freefall bit now over, I actually began to enjoy the experience as I swung through the canopy like some feeble Tarzan parody, though only in the manner that you “enjoy” leaving the dentists after particularly painful tooth extraction. Mercifully, it wasn’t long before I was lowered back to earth, cheered on (in my head) by my adoring fans. Supportive to the last, my friends actually remarked that my freefall had been “the funniest thing we’ve ever seen” and that I had “screamed like a girl”, a humiliation only slightly preferable to death. While I felt a certain degree of satisfaction to have confronted one of my great fears, the words that echoed the loudest in my head as I lay in bed that night were “never again”. Far from conquering my terror of falling from a great height, the episode had only served to confirm that my fear was well-founded. Much as it pains me to admit it, I am simply not cut out for bungee jumps, sky dives, or indeed any form of freefall adventuring.

It was just as well that I came to this conclusion before emigrating to New Zealand, where opportunities to engage in thrilling adventure activities present themselves as frequently as old stone cottages do back home. Whether it be the menacing shadow of Auckland’s Sky Tower or the litany of promotional pamphlets that get rammed down your throat from the moment you step off the plane at Queenstown airport, the palm-moistening spectre of the bungee jump is never far away.

Now I don’t want to give the impression that I am scared of heights per se. I’ve stood at the top of the Empire State Building and looked out from the summits of massive mountains; planes have never scared me (well, hardly ever - more of that in my next blog). But there’s something about the falling that I find truly terrifying. So having ticked off and, to be honest, not particularly enjoyed the experience of a rope swing in Costa Rica, I resolved that bungees and sky dives would be forevermore off-limits.

It was easy, then, when the same friends who had heckled me in Costa Rica came to visit in January and tried to cajole me into doing a bungee with them. I knew the possibility of me agreeing was non-existent, so I was able to enjoy our trip to Queenstown, the oft-proclaimed “adventure capital of the South”, confident in knowledge that no amount of wheedling or guilt-tripping would change my mind. As it turned out, watching other people bungee jump is only mildly less terrifying than doing one yourself, for I found myself living every moment of the experience with them, my forehead crowning itself in little pearls of sweaty terror just at the mere thought.

For all their initial bravado, my friends were not quite the fearless thrill-seekers they made themselves out to be. As the day of their pre-booked Karawau Bridge jumps approached their burgeoning angst became increasingly apparent. On the night before, one of them became so fidgety and pallid of hue that I thought he might do a surreptitious runner back to England. Still, their determination to go through with it ultimately won through, not least because they’d boasted of their intention to do a bungee in the now-distant comfort of their offices back home, and losing face to one’s colleagues was surely an even worse outcome than the plunge itself.

           As it happened, they both went through with it and actually came out saying they’d loved it.  For me, though, an observer on the visitors’ viewing platform, the whole thing appeared every bit as horrific as I’d imagined. I watched with a slightly stunned disbelief as the jumpers were led to the sheer-dropping edge of the bungee platform and asked to “give the camera a wave” before leaping into oblivion. The oddest thing was the way their bodies fell, less graceful Olympic divers, more rag dolls on a string. And then, having fallen, the way they bounced back up, as if boosted by some theme park trampoline, before being lowered into a small raft waiting for them in the river below.

           My resolve never to attempt a bungee myself was only strengthened by seeing my friends thrown around like a pair of volleyballs. They said it was an “amazing” experience, of course. And I know from Costa Rica that those few seconds after the initial freefall, when you realise you aren’t going to die and you get that wooshy sensation as you fly through the air, are pretty cool. Especially when your backdrop is as spectacular as the Karawau Gorge with its crystal clear river and time-worn rocks. Me, though, I still prefer to enjoy the scenery from the ground up. 

   
         Now, believe it or not, when great heights aren’t involved, I do actually enjoy the odd rush of adrenaline. Otherwise, I’d probably find my stays in Queenstown rather dull. And I was fortunate to return to the town this year with some semblance of pocket money. On our first visit in November 2010, soon after our arrival in New Zealand, we were close to penniless from our European travels (not to mention our complete and utter lack of saving), so we had to do Queenstown very much on a shoestring. We stayed in a budget backpackers, walked up the mountain to avoid paying for the Skyline Gondola, and took the scenic but nevertheless sedate steamship cruise across Lake Wakatipu rather than forking out for an expensive jetboat ride. So while it was possible to enjoy the place, and certainly its scenery, without wads of cash, our budget definitely precluded us from partaking in Queenstown’s more thrilling activities.

         This time, my personal mission was to ride the famous Shotover Jet, a high-speed jetboat that propels visitors down a particularly beautiful stretch of the eponymous river. Though I still felt a pang of annoyance that I had to hand over close to a hundred dollars for the privilege, I soon came to appreciate the value in the activity. The staff at the booking centre were welcoming and friendly, and the whole thing was slickly organised, with a prompt bus transporting us the 15 minute drive to the jet site to the north east of Queenstown. The neck-to-ankles waterproof jackets we were instructed to wear might have made us look like a Darth Vader tribute band, but at least they helped to keep our jeans and cameras dry. The ride itself lasted longer than I expected, and significantly longer than the mere seconds of adrenaline-pumping action you pay for with a bungee jump. It must have lasted 20 minutes in total, which was the perfect amount of time to soak up the views without feeling the discomfort that would have developed if we’d spent any longer travelling at such high speed, so close to jagged rocks, and with the ice cold air stinging our exposed faces. Our skipper was your typical Kiwi bloke, friendly and with a line in dry wit and shamelessly in love with the great outdoors. And with such stunning surrounds, it was hard not to feel a twinge of envy for such a simple life, driving excited travellers up and down this glorious stretch of New Zealand landscape beneath cloudless blue skies. 

        As if sheer speed was not enough of a thrill, the ride also featured a series of super-fast 360 turns at the wider points of the river, much to the whooping delight of the passengers. Here was adventure in manageable form, and without the petrifying build-up you get with a bungee jump or rope swing. With the Shotover Jet ticked off, I was happy to spend the rest of the trip in more placid mode, taking in the breathtaking scenery of Queenstown and its surrounds without the need to resort to perilous dare-devilling. My more dauntless friends were inevitably of a different mindset, and proceeded to partake in horse riding, black water rafting and paragliding before their trip was over. Me, well, even if I never relent and leave the bungee jumps and skydives to the more audacious of you out there, at least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that I, just the once, that time in Costa Rica, stared my fear in the face and won. 

This blog is dedicated to my dear cousin Vicky McWilliam, who passed away suddenly on 26^th April 2012.

Jonny

Australia

22nd January 2011

The one year anniversary of my arrival in New Zealand passed quietly in mid-October. The absence of popping champagne corks should not be read as a sign of discontent: it was simply that the fact of me living on the other side of the world, some 12,000 miles from home, had become so normal to me that reaching said milestone appeared not so much an achievement, but a pleasingly comfortable reality. And hell, hasn’t time flown? It’s hard to believe that sixteen months have now passed since I last saw (non-Skype versions of) my friends and family, or last set foot in my little London flat in Maida Hill.

But a lot has happened in those sixteen months, and as I begin a second new year as a resident of Auckland, it feels like an appropriate time to take stock of my adopted home town and see how it measures up against its counterparts back home in Europe and across the Tasman.

The one thing that I can say about Auckland with real certainty is that it is a very easy city to live in. I would be surprised to find anywhere else in the world that could offer the same balance of First World infrastructure and services, natural beauty, temperate climate, and all the benefits that a small population brings. That is not to say it doesn’t come with its fair share of irritants too, but where doesn’t? Despite growing up in the sleepy suburbs of a medium-sized market town, I am, at heart, a city boy. Europe was my playground for twenty seven wonderful years, and I won’t deny that I miss the proximity to its grand cultural hives. Auckland is a great place to live in many ways, but not necessarily a great city. While it excels at green spaces, drivability, suburban charm and gastronomic excellence, it perhaps falls a little short when measured against some of the parameters you would use to define the best cities in Europe. To put it bluntly, if shopping, art galleries, public transport and pubs are your criteria for judging a city, Auckland may be a disappointment.

It’s easy to romanticise about these things though. The museums and galleries of London and Paris are all very well, but how often, as a resident, do you actually spend wandering the art-filled corridors of stately home, or pensively stroking your chin beneath the dome of a vast cathedral? In truth, very little. And let’s be honest, you don’t move to New Zealand to be surrounded by edifices of steel and glass and drip fed art and history.

So, in belated celebration of a year in New Zealand, here is a list of some really great things about Auckland: dusky summertime loop walks around the obelisk-crowned One Tree Hill in Cornwall Park; the views across downtown’s mini Manhattan skyline as you drive across the Harbour Bridge from the North Shore; the fact that there is a different first class café for a year’s worth of Saturday morning brunches; the pocket village communities of Mount Eden, Kingsland and Parnell that provide buzzy independent hubs of dining and shopping away from the commercial sterility of the CBD; the grassy volcano-forged eskers studding the outer suburbs that provide stunning 360 degree outlooks over the surrounding city sprawl; the all-too-easy bar crawl of Ponsonby Road’s manifold fine drinking establishments; the winding waterside walk from the Viaduct to Saint Heliers on a cloudless summer’s afternoon; the stunning coastline to the west of Auckland, punctuated by the wild black sand beaches of Piha, Muriwai, Karekare and Bethells; the city’s 3 hour proximity to such dramatically opposed wildernesses as the Bay of Islands to the north and the thermal parks of Rotorua to the south; and, last but not least, the Cavalier Tavern, which is, on balance, my favourite pub in Auckland for its friendly staff, choice of ales, reasonably priced and tasty grub, and the superb views of the city skyline it offers from its terrace.

It is thoughts of these things, which represent the very best of what living in Auckland has to offer, that sustain me through the dark times, like when the seemingly omnipresent rain confines you to hours indoors waiting for the sun to return, or when you realise a good six months have passed since the last decent band stopped by to perform. Certainly, the promise of better times ahead helped me stay chipper through the recent Christmas break, when some of the worst festive weather on record conspired to prevent me showing visiting friends from the UK my adopted city at anywhere near its peak. Indeed, the endless torrential downpours meant the only guided tour I could give them was one of Auckland’s finest pubs.

There were no such frustrations when we flew across to a sizzling Sydney for a long weekend in mid-November. When I was first preparing to move out here, acquaintances who knew Auckland would often compare it to Sydney, and on visiting Australia’s tourism capital for a second time (following an initial trip three years ago) it became clear to me why. The two cities have much in common: both revolve around a harbour and a series of beaches; both have compact CBDs dominated by needle-like viewing towers; and both come alive in the outer suburbs where little communities have exploded with unfettered charm away from the hustle and bustle of the city centre.

But there are differences, and important ones at that. Scale is perhaps the most obvious, with Sydney feeling, as you window shop down one of its central streets or wander along one of its vast white sand beaches, like a bigger, buzzier version of Auckland. Sydney’s population stands at 4.6m versus Auckland’s 1.4m, and you certainly sense more people around you in the former’s bars and restaurants and museums. This inevitably brings with it pros and cons. The busyness lends Sydney more of a European city vibe and the physical and aural presence of locals and tourists does add atmosphere to the sort of places that, in Auckland, can appear lifeless. The downside is that it’s harder to find a table in a café or bar and the crowds can get overwhelming, especially when the whole population appears to be sunbathing on a small handful of beaches on a hot afternoon. And there are many of those. Despite sitting on proximate lines of latitude, Sydney is much warmer than Auckland and even in November, when it was still officially spring, Sydney’s temperatures were pushing an uncomfortable 30 degrees. However, given the complete non-summer Auckland is currently experiencing, I would definitely take a few days of east coast Australian sunshine at the moment.

Living in Auckland for fifteen months now, it’s amazing how quickly I have become normalised to its newness and cleanness. The oldest buildings here are no more than 150 years old, which seems a remarkable statistic for someone who has lived in a land as steeped in architectural history as England. Sydney is similarly pubescent compared to the ancient metropolises of Europe, but as we drove around it I saw signs of grime and decline that suggested a slightly older, wearier brother of its New Zealand counterpart. And the quaint pastel facades of The Rocks, the historic area that signposts the site of Australia’s first European settlement, are probably the oldest manmade structures I have seen in the whole of the Antipodes.

For all that, my lingering impression of Sydney is that of a modern, vibrant city whose magnificent harbour shimmers under the glare of an unobscured sun. The days I have spent there, both in November and on my previous visit in 2008, have been almost unendingly cloudless, the heat irrepressible. It’s a climate I might struggle to bear for months on end, but it does help to engender that all too rare feeling of actually being on holiday. While any self-respecting tourist must tick off the key attractions – and my god, even second time around, the Opera House and its unmistakable nest of cut-off domes leave one’s jaw hanging - the best of Sydney, as with Auckland, is to be found away from the commercial hubbub of the city centre. One enduring memory – amplified, I think, by the fact that it was the first genuine moment of absolute relaxation I’d experienced in several months - is of an early afternoon slumber Holly and I partook under the canopy of a long-limbed tree in the serene surroundings of the Botanical Gardens. Though barely a stone’s throw from Circular Quay, it was a little oasis of calm – that is, until a gaggle of noisy schoolchildren and The World’s Most Enthusiastic Teacher decided to ensconce themselves for an impromptu geography lesson mere meters away from my head.

Further afield, we enjoyed exploring the winding stretch of coastline that connects the lively suburbs of Coogee and its more famous neighbour Bondi. Fortuitously, the weekend we were there coincided with the annual Sculpture by the Sea festival, which punctuates the cliff top pathway with a series of elaborate art installations, including a giant set of bath taps and a wire mesh stag with fantastically exaggerated antlers.

As if this were not enough of a treat, the walk also presented us with some tantalising glimpses of humpback whales bursting balletically out of the ocean down below. The evenings, by contrast, were less kind to our bodies, as we took full advantage of the dizzying array of restaurants and bars on offer in Bondi, where our walk came to an end. And just when I thought I couldn’t indulge any further, we found ourselves in an establishment called The Rum Diaries, where I couldn’t help but order a drink called ‘Hot Buttered Rum’. Suffice to say, the consequences for my bowels were not pretty.

Though I came away from Sydney feeling refreshed and inspired – and even with a view that I could easily live there somewhere down the line – I remember coming away feeling happy to return to our little flat in Auckland, which, for all its frustrations, is now the place I contentedly call ‘home’.

Jonny

Winning Days

11^th December 2011

In the wee small hours of Monday 24^th October 2011, my feet slowed to a halt somewhere along Commerce Street, downtown Auckland, and I took a moment to survey the scene around me. To my right, a gaggle of shrieking girls in teetering heels and bounteous mascara. To my left, a sweary horde of fist-clenching boys singing pitifully out of tune. Ahead of me, a maze of fidgeting queues stretching out from the doors of every bar and club. And down at my feet, a wretched teenager expunging the beery contents of his stomach impenitently onto the kerbside.

Upon absorbing these sights and sounds, my only thought was that I must have been transported back to Loughborough town centre on the last night out of term before Christmas. On further viewing, however, it became mercifully apparent that I wasn’t experiencing some nightmarish vision of my teenage years, but was indeed still in the Auckland I had come to love for its scarcity of binge-drinking hooliganism over the past 12 months. One tell-tale sign was the comically exaggerated war dance that suddenly broke out amongst the group of shirtless young men in front of me. Another was the overwhelming presence of black clothing, flags and face paint amongst the surrounding revellers. And then there were the forlorn-looking fellows in blue shirts and berets who trudged by looking as though their team had just lost the World Cup final…

It became clear to me then that New Zealand was having a party, a party to end all parties, a party to celebrate the Greatest Day in New Zealand History. I refer, of course, to the day when the All Blacks won the Rugby World Cup in their own back yard by a scarcely probable 9-8 score line against the French. For outsiders (of which I am inevitably still one), the sheer momentousness of this achievement was perhaps not immediately apparent. To put it simply though, the notion of New Zealand winning the biggest competition in the sporting calendar, in their own country, by the slenderest of margins, in the dying minutes of the game, with their captain a walking wounded and their star player forced out through injury, and against a team who had notoriously defeated them in the finals of two previous World Cups, was pretty much every Kiwi’s number one fantasy. Not any more. This happened, and not even against the odds, but in a manner that seemed so inevitable that it’s hard to believe God wasn’t colluding on the script with the soon to be re-elected Prime Minister, John Key.

Before and after the final, the New Zealand media talked a lot of guff about this outcome being their “destiny”, and were I not a bitter Pom still irked by England’s dismal exit from the competition two weeks’ previously, I’d probably be employing such hyperbole myself. Even so, it was impossible not to be swept along with the atmosphere on the night, so wild were the celebrations after the final whistle, when a combination of elation at the result and relief that the French (as had seemed likely for most of the game) were not to going ruin their dream again, manifested itself in the form of screams, cheers, fist pumping, hands in the air, table dancing and even nudity (though the less said about the man whose celebration entailed the impromptu removal of his jeans and underwear in the gents toilets, the better). I even found myself exclaiming “yes!!!” with such vigour that even a triple exclamation mark is understating it. Personally, I blame the Kiwi girlfriend.

After a year when an improbable succession of natural and manmade disasters had made New Zealanders rightfully ask themselves, “what have we done to deserve this?”, only the most hard-hearted foreigner would not have taken pleasure in seeing the country celebrate in such a manner – even it did mean that Auckland fleetingly resembled the booze-fuelled apocalypse of a British seaside town. As an immigrant here, I felt particularly privileged to have been able to experience it all first hand. I know several rugby fans back home who would have been mightily envious of me as they watched the game shivering in their dressing gowns and cradling cups of tea first thing in the British morning.

For us, the litany of potential options for watching the final was a bit overwhelming. Packed out sports club or quiet hotel bar? With family or friends? At home or in a central square? In the end, we did what any self-respecting Brit would do and headed for the pub.

I’ve always believed that there’s something perfectly aligned about pubs and live sport. The big screen displays, the jugs of ale, the big bowls of chips slathered with ketchup and mayonnaise… all these things contribute, but really, it’s about those moments of sense-defying euphoria when the scoring of a goal or conversion of a penalty kick results in a colossal outpouring of fist-pumping, hand-clapping, arms aloft emotion that the presence of others seems magnify ten-fold. And of course, the moment of triumph in a game of a World Cup final’s magnitude is all the sweeter.

New Zealand’s elation in the wake of the All Blacks’ sensational victory offered belated proof that Kiwis are every bit as capable of sporting fanaticism as we Brits. This has not always been obvious to me, for while New Zealanders talk about sport – well, rugby – a lot, their demeanour at live games would not always suggest they cared in quite the same way we do. Inevitably, this has as much to do with the different mindsets of football and rugby fans as it does with the cultural divergences between Kiwis and Brits, but New Zealanders themselves will often bemoan the lack of passion displayed by fans at live rugby games. While the crowds at British football matches can be intimidating to the uninitiated, few would argue with the almost religious fervour generated by fans getting behind (or slating) their team. Prior to the Rugby World Cup, by contrast, I found the atmosphere at the lives games I attended to be rather sedate. There was little in the way of singing and chanting; polite applause was more likely than the expletive-ridden tirades I was used to back home; and Mexican waves substituted the torrents of ref-directed abuse that soundtrack your typical footy match.

The locals won’t like me saying it, but some of the best atmospheres generated at the World Cup were at games involving teams other than the All Blacks – and I can testify to that myself after being nearly deafened by boisterous Highlanders at the England v Scotland group match. It was a strange tournament for the hosts in fairness. They knew from the start that they would most likely reach the latter stages of the competition, which meant that it was difficult for fans to get particularly excited by the early games against massively inferior opposition. One colleague of mine, whom I’m sure wouldn’t mind me calling a sports nut, was so unenthused by the prospect of New Zealand vs Japan that he recorded the game to watch back at a more convenient time. By the end of the tournament, the desperation to win had become so unbearable that All Blacks fans were watching games paralysed by nerves and unable to speak or cheer for fear of breaking the spell.

They needn’t have worried, of course. Sport is usually at its best when it’s unpredictable, but while we all knew the All Blacks’ triumph was “nailed on”, the Rugby World Cup of 2011 will still go down as one of my best ever sporting memories – which is saying something coming from a fan of team who played as dismally as England did.

The legacy of the tournament, though, goes way beyond my personal reminiscences and the sickening hangovers that those lairy revellers would have woken up to the morning after the final. I wouldn’t go as far as saying that it’s put New Zealand on the map – I’ll leave the clichés to the hacks – but it’s certainly stirred consciousness of the place elsewhere in the world, and I doubt any travelling fan would have left with a bad word to say about it. Auckland, certainly, has reaped the benefits and has felt like a much grander city since the long-awaited makeovers of the Art Gallery and Wynyard Quarter, both of which were inspired to completion by the onset of the tournament. And the early signs seem to be good for the clutch of new bars, cafes and restaurants that threw their doors open to the influx of World Cup tourists – certainly, the new strip of eating and drinking establishments along the Viaduct were full to the brim when I walked past them on a recent Friday evening.

Ultimately, it’s really up to those of us who continue to live in this city to keep these places going now that the 80,000 tourists have gone home with their scrapbooks of happy memories. The rugby showed the city and the wider country at its best – let’s make sure we keep it that way. After all, it might be quite some time before New Zealand gets to experience such excitement and glory again. The next World Cup is being hosted in England after all…

Jonny