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

Wicked Game

25^th September 2011

My first live game of rugby was a 6 Nations test between England and Wales at Twickenham in spring 2004. Such was my indifference towards the sport at the time that I wouldn't have known what the 6 Nations was, let alone considered attending a game, were it not for my dad winning a pair of tickets in a work raffle and asking me to be his plus one. My utter absence of interest in rugby stemmed, I think, from my heroically unsporty teenage self being forced to play it for three excruciating years at secondary school, and the bitter memories of chapped winter thighs and ill-fitting gum shields that remained seared on my brain. For all that, trips to London were still something of an event for me in those days, and the game gave me an opportunity to see a side of the capital I hadn’t previously experienced. In short, I wasn’t going to turn the offer down.

As it turned out, my first game of rugby wasn’t bad. Which isn’t to say it was great, or life-changing, but it definitely wasn’t the macho bore-fest I had been expecting. I even found myself cheering when England’s Olly Barclay converted a penalty kick. And something must have sparked in me that white-skied afternoon in South West London, for while my prior interest in rugby had been such that I hadn’t even bothered to get out of bed for England's triumphant 2003 World Cup final, I subsequently began to watch - and even enjoy - the occasional game on the TV. Nevertheless, rugby remained a mere anemone in the context of my passion for football, and I didn’t attend another live game until I arrived in a country where ignoring rugby is as easy as finding a pre-made pack of sandwiches.

Holly warned me early on in our relationship that I was going to have to up my game when it came to knowledge of rugby, particularly if I ever wanted to impress her dad or, indeed, have any sort of meaningful conversation with another male in her home country. And so it has come to pass, for New Zealand, to put it mildly, is rugby bonkers. Here football (or “soccer” as Kiwis call it) is just an itch on the skin of the all-conquering Goliath that is rugby, and any naysayers may as well board the first flight out of Auckland airport, such is the unwavering fervour with which Kiwis discuss, debate and dissect their favourite sport. Inevitably, some of their enthusiasm has begun to wear off after almost a year of being bludgeoned into conversations about it, and I can now honestly say that I can even enjoy watching games that don't involve England.

Of no little encouragement in this has been the arrival here of the Rugby World Cup at a time when the All Blacks are regarded by even the most cynical fan as the finest rugby side on the planet. If it doesn’t happen for them this year, it probably never will. The build-up was in progress even before we arrived in Auckland last spring and had reached fever pitch by early September, when the whole country was counting down the days to the first game, New Zealand vs Tonga, at the national stadium Eden Park. Though I had enjoyed following the previous World Cup in 2007 - not least because England somehow contrived to get all the way to the final for a second tournament running - I can’t say the prospect of being in NZ for the 2011 competition had particularly moved me when I first began to contemplate emigrating over here early last year. To be honest, I was more concerned about missing the excitement of London hosting the 2012 Olympics, not to mention the prospect of getting out of bed at some godforsaken hour to watch the inevitable failure of the England football team at the European Championships next year. Now that I’m here though, and experiencing it all first hand, I know I’m making a lot of my sport-loving friends back home salivatingly envious.

It’s fair to say that New Zealand has done everything it could and more to make this tournament a memorable one, even if the draw has served up some of the greatest mis-matches I’ve ever seen from a competition that purports to be pitting the world’s best teams against one another. Eden Park is a mighty fine stadium, and the addition of a unfeasibly high temporary seating stand at one end has afforded it a sense of scale that befits its hosting of one of the world’s biggest sporting competitions. However, it is not just the venues, which include the stunning glass-roofed Otago Stadium in Dunedin, but the whole country that has embraced the tournament and provided the estimated 80,000 World Cup tourists with a scrapbook-full to write home about.

Auckland, for one, has been transformed in recent weeks. The streets, often grey and humdrum during the cold winter months, have been decked out with a myriad of posters, flags and awnings, with each area of the central city assigned one of the 20 competing nations to support. The first morning that I drove down Ponsonby Road and saw that the street had been turned overnight into a mini-England with St George’s Crosses hanging above every shop window, I was just a little moved.

Most impressive of all is the work that’s been done down by the waterfront. One of the first things that struck me about Auckland when I first came here was how disconnected it felt from the water that surrounds it. Uniquely placed, with bays to the north, south and, a little further out, to the west, you’d imagine from the map that this would be a city at one with its bordering seas, but instead it has so turned inwardly on itself that if you were dumped blind in the middle of the CBD you’d have next to no idea you were only a few minutes’ walk away from the ocean.

In fairness, the downtown harbour area does dazzle in parts. The Viaduct, with its gleaming white apartment blocks and cruise liner architecture, is the perfect setting for a mid-afternoon stroll in the peak of summer, and its winding waterside pathways play host to some of the city’s finest wining and dining establishments. Further along, the stately Ferry Building stands proud as a remembrance of Auckland’s colonial past, while the dirty rainbow of metal crates offloading from docked container ships is nothing if not imposing. But compared to the likes of Sydney and Brighton, cities that embrace and celebrate their closeness to the sea and offer their residents and visitors whole travel guides of seafront shopping, drinking and eating experiences, Auckland has been something of a disappointment.

That could all be about to change though with the opening of the Wynyard Quarter, a formerly derelict area to the west of the Viaduct that has been transformed into a humming patchwork of open spaces, industrial walkways, and high class bars and restaurants. The defunct chemical storage cylinders, far from disrupting the views out over the Waitemata Harbour, lend the area a unique atmosphere, their monolithic silhouettes providing a photographer’s dream as they tower like dark satanic mills above daytripping families and evening revellers alike.

Opened only weeks before the Rugby World Cup, the Wynyard Quarter has gone some way towards restoring some semblance of harmony between the city and its waterfront. It even boasts a heritage tram to carry travellers the almost laughably short distance between the Auckland Fish Market in Freeman’s Bay and the Viaduct. And despite being only an occasional destination for most Aucklanders in the past, the waterfront has come alive spectacularly during the first weeks of the Rugby World Cup. The day of the opening ceremony and first game between the All Blacks and Tonga, it seemed as if the entire city had descended upon it, and from early afternoon, when generous bosses began to let distracted staff out the office early, through to the late evening kick-off, a thick throng of people stretched all the way from the new Wynward Quarter café-housing bubble dome to the purpose-built fan zone centrepiece The Cloud over by the Ferry Building. When I arrived there with a group of work friends around 4 in the afternoon, the sheer mass of people was overwhelming – it was like being back on Oxford Street on the last shopping weekend before Christmas. Worse was the fact that the new strip of bars and restaurants in the Wynyard Quarter was patently not set up for the sudden influx of several thousand ecstatic tourists demanding unending beer. Taking one for the team, I valiantly attached myself to a forebodingly tutting queue and spent the next 45 minutes failing to get served by the under-supported bar staff. When I finally reached the front of the queue, I was told to my despair that I was at a section of the bar where they were only taking table orders. I used to be accustomed to such misery in the UK but after nearly 12 months of hassle-free pint buying, this represented a proverbial kick in the gonads. Fortunately, my powers of negotiation had not been dimmed by a year of being surrounded by people being awfully nice to each other, and following a stern word to the barman, I was able to escape with doubled-up pints for my entire group.

Such incidents were typical of a night when Auckland came close to collapsing under the weight of expectation, but crowd control aside, this was a glorious day in NZ history and when I finally got to stand, pint in hand, and admire the view out to sea surrounded by more people that I ever thought I’d see gathered in one place in New Zealand, and later, when a spectacular firework display exploded out of the Sky Tower and electrified the city skyline, I was grateful to be part of a little piece of history.

Ironically, the rugby itself has somehow seemed like an afterthought in the context of so much else going on in the city, and the fact that most of the tournament’s big guns have so effortlessly trounced the opposition has meant many of the games have been little more than training ground exercises. That could all change this weekend, when I will be lucky enough to witness a real clash of the titans, England v Scotland, at Eden Park. For a long time I’ve felt very far away from home, but now, with the eyes of the world and millions in my home country watching New Zealand on their TV screens, I suddenly feel like I’m at the centre of the universe.

Jonny

The Piano Has Been Drinking (Not Me)

6^th August 2011

Who would have thought that something as ubiquitous in the British Isles as a pint of beer would be so hard to come by in foreign climes? The scarcity of the humble pint in New Zealand is particularly bewildering, not least because this country is teeming with Brits and children of Brits who must surely be thinking the same thing as me when they enter a pub here and are served their beer in a glass that, even to the naked eye, is clearly not pint-sized. It’s not far off, admittedly, but when one has spent their entire adult life drinking their favourite alcoholic beverage in a very specific volume, it is immediately apparent when said beverage is presented to you in a stunted form. It’s the same feeling you get as when you excitedly tear open a seemingly laden packet of crisps only to find that the bag was full of air and there’s barely a mouthful of the advertised contents at the bottom - a feeling of being, as we Poms say, “turned over”.

Such is the infrequency that pints are to be found in NZ pubs that I have been forced to adapt my lifelong bar order to exclude all reference to the desired quantity. I now simply request “a beer” rather than “a pint” for fear of getting strange looks. There doesn’t appear to be a name or word that identifies the slightly-less-than-a-pint-sized glasses that beer is usually served in here. In Australia, I know they call their smaller beer glasses “schooners” but the receptacle closest to a pint that I have encountered here is known as a “pot”. Which to me implies a small ceramic vestibule, and something entirely unsuited to the drinking of beer.

Now I realise some of you are probably thinking that this is all a bit of a fuss over nothing, but the smaller glass size does cause a certain degree of distress for unaccustomed Poms like myself. For a start, it means that you finish your drink a good couple of minutes sooner than you would in the UK, which means a quicker return to the bar, and ultimately more visits to the bar throughout the course of an evening. Which is annoying. It also means you end up spending significantly more on a night out than you would in your typical British pub, even in one of those monstrously overpriced west London gastro-pubs. The average price of a not-quite-a-pint in Auckland is somewhere around the 8 dollar mark, which at the current exchange rate is over 4 British pounds. Suffice to say, that is not a cheap date.

It recently transpired that it’s not just us grumpy Brits who have taken the Kiwi not-quite-a-pint issue to heart. A couple of weeks ago, the New Zealand Herald, Auckland’s leading newspaper, ran an outraged article entitled ‘The great World Cup beer swindle’, which announced to a disbelieving populace that official Rugby World Cup sponsor Heineken had increased beer keg prices whilst at the same time reducing the size of their branded tap beer glasses from 425ml to 400ml. The not-quite-a-pint controversy just became the barely-a-half-pint scandal.

If nothing else, the size of New Zealand beer vestibules helps to illustrate that the drinking culture here is quite different to that of the UK. I have previously remarked on the fact that pubs here are few and far between, with Kiwis more likely to choose bars and restaurants as their preferred out-of-home drinking dens. It’s a trend that I do find slightly strange, because Kiwis do love a good pub. Those that have travelled to the UK often cite the traditional “old man’s pub” as one of the things they miss most when returning to their homeland, and the pubs that have set up here always seem to be doing a roaring trade. Not that New Zealand’s pubs entirely replicate the distinct atmosphere of your English King & Queens and Coach & Horses. As well as the glass sizes, there are a number of other subtle distinctions that mark a Kiwi pub out from the ones I know and love back home. For a start, it is rare indeed to find a pub that serves bags of crisps from behind the bar. This curiously British phenomenon is, of course, a disaster waiting to happen for one’s arteries but when you’ve grown up with it, it’s hard not to feel disappointed when you’re deprived the ability to scoff a packet of steak-flavoured McCoys or bag of scampi fries with your pint of ale. And they haven’t even heard of pork scratchings over here, which, when you find yourself trying to explain the appeal of a bag of hairy freeze-dried pork rind, is probably not all that surprising.

So, if they serve their drinks in sizes that would justify a refund back home, and don’t offer their punters anything in the way of meat-flavoured potato snacks, is there anything that New Zealand pubs do do better than their British counterparts? Well, as it happens, there is. For a start, it is actually possible to walk into a central Auckland pub on a Friday lunchtime and find a free table. It is even probable that you can walk straight up to the bar and get served instantaneously, without any need for standing on tip-toe, dislocating limbs or barging fellow customers out of the way in order to get the barman to take your order. For any British person accustomed to spending entire evenings in the pub standing up and waiting at the bar for up to half an hour to get served, this is the equivalent of watering hole heaven.

Another notable feature of Kiwi pubs is that many of them actually serve their own beers brewed on site, and even those that don’t tend to offer a much broader and more unusual selection of lagers and ales than your average British boozer. There are also fewer in the way of homogenised chains like UK juggernauts Wetherspoons or O’Neils, which, while easy on the wallet, are only slightly more pleasant to spend an evening in than a motorway branch of Burger King. The main chains that they do have here – such as Mac’s brewbars and Monteith’s series of pubs – tend to be specialists in a particular beer brand and do their best to offer unique and interesting drinking experiences for their patrons. The food on offer in these establishments is usually of a decent quality too, with menus often bespoke to the venue and usually much more innovative than the limited burger-based selections you find in England. So even if you can’t buy a bag of smoky bacon crisps to soak up your beer, you are at least guaranteed a non-soggy bowl of fries and mayo.

Strangely, while my perception is that pubs are not very common in New Zealand, when I actually think about it, a lot more come to mind than expected. In Auckland alone, I can reel off a good half dozen where I’d happily spend an evening sitting (not standing) with a group of friends. There’s Ponsonby’s Belgian Beer Café, for example, a poshly-named pub housed within the grandiose walls of an old post office that serves heaving buckets of moules to accompany your Leffe and Stella Artois (yes, they have European beers here too).

There’s College Hill’s Cavalier Tavern, which does a mean lunchtime burger and provides a large outdoor terrace with great views out to the Sky Tower-dominated CBD - perfect for large groups on balmy summer evenings.

There’s downtown’s Northern Steamship, a classy Mac’s Brewbar uniquely decked out with upside-down art deco lampshades, leather couches and towering cylindrical free-standing bookshelves. There’s even an almost-authentic Irish pub called The Clare Inn in Mount Eden with a roaring fire, sport on the TV, and genuine Irish bar staff who call it “The Clurr Inn”.

So what’s missing about NZ pub culture, apart from pints? Well, on reflection, I think it’s probably the concept of “the local”, which is so engrained in British culture that the very expression has come to mean “the nearest boozer”. In the UK we have it good – perhaps too good – with even the smallest rural villages boasting a pub alongside the obligatory post office and shop, and in the big cities you’re rarely more than a 15 minute walk from the nearest drinking establishment. Within staggering distance of my old Maida Vale flat, for instance, it would take a third hand to count the number of pubs within a short walking radius. Not all of them were great, of course, and some of them were downright ‘orrible, but at least you had options. By contrast our new suburb of Epsom, while more than catering for every conceivable takeaway food occasion, doesn’t appear to have any true pubs. The closest ones to our flat are in Mount Eden village, a good twenty minutes’ walk from here.

Given that so much of New Zealand culture can be directly traced back to its British roots, it really is a curious thing that that mainstay of British life, the public house, is not more commonplace than it is here. Perhaps there’s a silent not-quite-a-pint boycott going on. Perhaps the price of beer is forcing Kiwis, particularly in these uncertain economic times, to drink more in the comfort of their own homes, with a 12 pack of beer stubs from the local supermarket currently a frighteningly cheaper option than a round of drinks in the pub. Or maybe it’s that dreaded public transport issue again – after all, a pub crawl is an easy night out in London when you have the Tube to get you home (and sometimes you can even get away with a pub crawl on the Tube), but when you’re having to rely on Auckland’s less than efficient buses and local trains, I know from my own experience that driving oneself home after a sober night out is the preferable option.

Whatever the pros or cons of the New Zealand drinking experience, the one thing I am sure of is that there’s a huge gap in the market here for a suburban, proper pint serving, crisp-stocked pub with fruit machines, a 80s-themed jukebox and a grumpy old man and a dog in the corner. There are enough Brits here to guarantee it regular, free-spending punters and you never know, the locals might just enjoy it too…

Jonny

Holly’s Auckland Winter Top Ten

Hello Hello! It’s been rather a while since my last post, so thought I might share a couple of my favourite things about my home town, Auckland. Here are 1 – 3 of 10.

  

1. The New Zealand International Film Festival 

  (Jul 14 – Aug 03)

A highlight of winter for many a partially hibernating Aucklander, the International Film Festival has something for everyone. I can think of no better way to spend a chilly evening than by cosying up under the stars in the beautiful Civic Theatre with a plastic cup of beer or (top quality) NZ wine in hand and being transported away for an hour or two. Jonny and I have had the good fortune of seeing a couple of excellent films so far.

The Civic Theatre

Tabloid – by Errol Morris (2010)

Fantastic documentary by experienced documentarian Morris (Fog of War, Mr Death etc). Former American beauty queen Joyce McKinney is his subject in this bizarre tale of romantic obsession, Mormon priests, smutty porn, a rented cottage in Devon, and the ensuing tabloid palaver she caused in Britain in the late 70s. Not to mention an even weirder plot twist before the final credits roll. If any of you have seen Crazy Love (2007) the American doco about the entangled lives of Burt Pugach and Linda Riss, then you’ll most certainly like Tabloid.

 Joyce McKinney - Tabloid

Submarine – by Richard Ayoade (2010)

Excellent debut film by IT Crowd favourite Richard Ayoade. Submarine follows the fortunes of young outsider Oliver Tate as he comes of age in Swansea in the early 80s (a challenge at the best of times). Fine performances by the Paddy Considine (always ace) as Graham Purvis and Craig Roberts as Oliver. Alex Turner was responsible for the music and he’s come up with the goods with the Submarine EP. Piledriver Waltz is on high rotation in our house at the moment.

 Submarine

 2. Auckland Museum

Perched atop a smallish hill in the green surrounds of the Domain and Winter Garden, the Museum is arguably the best looking building in Auckland and a perennial favourite for young and old alike. Go on a Saturday morning and you can combine a Parnell Farmers Market stop off, as well as coffee in the cute little Go Coffee cafe. 

Museum Opening Day, 1929

3. Little & Friday Cafe in Martha’s Fabrics

A newish addition to Newmarket, Little & Friday is a sweet little cafe hidden away from the Broadway hoards. The white tiled counter provides a nice backdrop to the beautiful selection of cakes and high tea treats which are just waiting to be served to you on a vintage china plate. Like the big shared tables, and the custard tart was very nice indeed. When you’ve finished, stroll through the rolls of fabric in Martha’s, pick up an interesting print - perhaps an upholstery project or that new dress. Or would it be best to look at the fabric first? You wouldn’t want to paw the imported linens and drill cottons with your jammy lamington hands. 

Little & Friday - swatches and brioche