Jan 2007

The fifth of January was a beautiful sunny morning in Sydney, and so we loaded up our newly acquired (and rather snazzy) Toyota Corolla Accent and headed without a care in the world for the coast. It was as were driving past the industrial town of Wollongong, and the beautiful sights of Seven Mile Beach that it dawned that we didn't really have a plan of where we were going to stop, just a vague knowledge of the general direction. This usually wouldn't be a main concern, but as it turned out, it was to be a large schoolboy error on our part.

Arriving in the small town of Jervis Bay, we decided this would be a nice place to stop for our first couple of nights, only to discover that every single place we enquired at was full. Not only was it the summer holidays, a reliably busy time of year for all in the region, but also a friday afternoon, when many working families headed for the beach.

Consequently, we drove for a good thirty kilometres back in the direction we'd came, finally stumbling across a road-side motel, which although a little more pricey than we would have ideally liked, was clean and comfortable (en-suite for the first time in a long, long time), and boasted laundry facilities which would could abuse freely. We made a quick visit to Jervis Bay the following day, lounging around on the beach for a while before continuing on.

We'd learnt the hard way that we would have to start planning our journey a little more carefully, unfortunately taking a little bit of the spontenaity out of the whole venture. Soon enough however, it became clear that we could be slightly devious and leave dodgy credit card numbers with a variety of hostels when booking, thus leaving our options a little more open.

We stopped next in the relatively large harbour town of Batemans Bay, but with the highlight being a rather average 'chicken dinner' in our shady-looking room above a local pub we were keen to get going the following day.

Driving on, we had booked a room at the YHA in Merimbula, and were quite pleased to turn up and find not only a pleasant town, but also a clean and spacious hostel. This finally seemed like an ideal place to plot up for a few days, relax on a few of the many beaches in the area and take some of the burden out of spending money and do some of our own cooking.

It was great to finally settle down after a few aimless days on he move, and take the opportunity to discover some of this beautiful coastline. We took some nice walks around the towns lagoon, and made a drive out to visit the secluded bays of the nearby Ben Boyd National Park and the picturesque inlet at Pambula River.

The weather so far had been very kind to us, a nice cool southerly wind keeping temperatures down in the bearable mid-twenties, but as we drove into the small town of Lakes Entrance it was beginning to take a turn for the worse. The bush fires, which crews were struggling to contain just fifteen kilometres north, made it hard to begrudge the locals a little rain which might help save some of the farms and properties being threatened by the raging blazes.

We got some quite spooky snaps of the sky as we drove into town, hopefully highlighting the extent of the smoke filling the atmosphere. The air held this smokey texture for the couple of days we were in town, so we unfortunately didn't get to go out and take a look at the Ninety-Mile Beach, a famous landmark of the southern town.

Our last stop before returning to Melbourne was Phillip Island, a place boasting of an attraction where we could see some penguins in their natural habitat. Reports of seeing wild animals always seems to be met with scepticism, as they rarely turn out to be as spectacular as they are promised, but we quickly booked our ticket to the Penguin Parade anyway in the hope that our expectation would be met.

We drove down to the centre for around 8pm, took in a quick introductory video to explain about what we were about to see, and were then led to the beachside enclosures with five-hundred or so other keen spectators. As dusk approached just after 9pm, the penguins did their thing on cue, struggling ashore after their days hunting in packs of fifteen to twenty.

They scout out the area to check it's safe for a few moments, and then begin legging it amusingly up the beach to their nests and eagerly awaiting babies, where they eventually regurgitate their food for the hungry youngsters. From the beach it's fairly difficult to see much of the tiny creatures in the fading light, but as you take the boardwalks back to the centre you get to watch the little fella's waddle by in close-up. A pretty astounding display of nature working like clockwork!

We had one more day at Phillip Island to see some of it's reputed sights and found a local fete displaying some local wares and showcasing a few of Australia's up-and-coming bands which made for a chilled out afternoon in the sun.

Driving to Melbourne the following morning, I'm rather ashamed to report that we stopped in at Ramsey Street (real name: Pin Oak Court) to be snapped in front of the characters ficticious houses and generally annoy the unfortunate residents who must smirk in sympathy at each car that pulls into their street.

Finding our hostel in St Kilda, it wasn't long before we were off for part two of our shameful day and the world famous Neighbours night, the money-spinning brainchild of the guy who plays Karl Kennedy. Accompanied by our new room-mate Rob, who had just as much enthusiasm for the event as Sarah and therefore out-numbering me two-to-one on any kind of veto, we queued embarrassingly for nearly an hour outside the British Elephant and Wheelbarrow Pub before finally being led to our table.

After an excruciatingly dull two-hour wait ("you're Neighbours stars will be with you very shortly!!!"), the first of the 'celebs' appeared amid an epilepsy-inducing display of flashing camera's. Grabbing the microphone, Stefan Dennis (aka Paul Robinson) announced with excruciating candour "ladies, feel free to grab my arse". It's fair to assume that the vertically challenged actor isn't just in it for the extra cash, despite the wedding band displayed proudly on his third finger.

Second out, was a woman neither of us recognised, but who apparently plays Genelle in the soap. There were murmurs from many of the men in attendance that her on-screen daughter (an 'hottie') would have been a much more pleasing inclusion.

Third and finally came Toady, the most eagerly awaited of the trio and someone who we understand makes more appearances here than any other member of the cast. He was apparently banned for a while after being found in a rather compromising position with a young lady in the toilets on a previous night. It appears that money can buy you neither class, or in this case, even a cheap hotel room.

A thankfully quick question-and-answer session ensued, and then the quiz began while the actors milled amongst the many tables to give the fans their photo opportunities. Despite great efforts on my part, I failed to make my face contort past 'bothered' even in the cringeful presence of an overly-charismatic Stefan Dennis, prompting Sarah to dive in for individual photo's in the hope of getting a real momento.

Prizes were given away during the evening, one lucky middle-aged fella being 'forced' to snog a parentally endorsed fifteen year-old live on stage in order to win an island cruise, whilst the obligatory dancing competition made for some truly five-star entertainment. Although coming a respectable third in the quiz, our table slightly let down by it's lack of Neighbours knowledge, we were out of the running for the final cash prize and probably the only sane reason for being there. We're told the party goes on from there well into the night, but we could bear it no more and made a quick dash for the exit after the cast members had made their final sickly farewells to "the people that keep us in a job".

With my tactics of drinking through the whole sordid occasion in the deluded hope it would make it all bearable, I awoke the following morning feeling decidedly groggy. Meeting Tom and Lisa once again for a much needed all-day fry-up, and a quick stroll to St Kilda's Luna Park, the rest of the afternoon was pretty much written off in the interests of recovery.

Although we didn't really feel up to it, that evening we took ourselves off to a show which Sarah had spotted in a local magazine. Dracula's was a horror-comedy sketch, stand-up and musical production, with a reasonably priced three-course meal option, and which, on the whole, made for an entertaining final evening in Melbourne. Plenty of abuse was thrown at us for being the only 'Pommes' in the audience, with Kiwi's, Tasmanian's, South African's and pretty much any other nationalities they could find sharing the brunt of the ridicule.

The first leg of our South Coast trip was completed, and although we'd found many of the beach towns to be quiet and uneventful, this was a nice way to calm down after the two hectic and expensive Sydney weeks. Melbourne had been a welcome distraction, and now we were off once again for South Australia and the Great Ocean Road.

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Grabbing a taxi from Central Station, we found ourselves standing outside what we would call home for the next 14 nights, hoping that it would be better on the inside than it's outer shell made it appear. Hopes were soon dashed as we were shown around the shabby kitchen and courtyard, dreary looking lounge and finally to our four-bed dorm with it's barred windows facing onto the busy main road, cracking walls and squeaky metal bunks.

Our only hope at this point was that the atmosphere would make up for the drabness of our surroundings, but this looked unlikely considering we were surrounded by Koreans and Chinese who spoke little English. Our room-mates for the next two weeks however were to be Jennifer and Antonio, a young couple from Leeds who shared similar doubts about the hostel and knew that the time of year would make it impossible to move elsewhere. Consoling ourselves with the fact that we wouldn't necessarily be spending much time there was about all we could cling onto.

With our earplugs working overtime, we woke the next morning and took the hour-long walk through the city to The Rocks, an area situated directly underneath Sydney Harbour Bridge, where we soon met up with Andy and Rachel, good friends from home now residing in Hong Kong, who had flown in for a synchronised ten-day break.

After a quick pint, we all headed off for our scheduled Bridge Climb. Despite the dull and heavy looking skies above us we were all looking forward to testing our nerve on the iconic giant steel structure which spans the harbour. Throwing on our jump suits, harnesses and accessories we met our guide and took the standard safety briefing, and soon were heading out onto the grated metal walkways and a series of ladders.

Our guide gave a running commentary through high-tech radio's and headsets (mine and Andy's stopped working within about five minutes of being on the bridge), but as the cold wind grew stronger and we kept being stopped for fairly irrelevant stories and photos (a reasonable four for thirty quid!), the more the thrill of the experience became a little tiresome. It was clear that the company that run the whole affair keep their clients up on the bridge for three hours in an attempt to justify the rather expensive price tag, and by the time we began to make our way down we just wanted to get back to the pub. We're certainly glad that we took the effort, but it's not something that would need repeating. The night was polished off with late drinks in one of the many pub-stroke-clubs which adorn the streets around Circular Quay.

Christmas Eve came with a loud clap of thunder and a liberal bucketful of rain, but not much else. It was astounding to think that it was now christmas when hardly anything within Sydney itself would even suggest it's arrival. The climate alone is enough to throw anyone from our part of the world off kilter, but when you're used to the festive period being shoved down your throat from as early as October, the adjustment can be a little underwhelming.

Realising there was going to be little repsite from the torrential downpour outside, we legged it across ten or so city blocks until we found a reasonable looking Irish pub called Scruffy Murphy's to plot up in and satisfy our hangovers need for sustenance. As the afternoon progressed, our friends began to gradually arrive, Sam and Neil from our time in Cusco, and Gareth and Stacey from the week in Buenos Aires, with a whole Irish mob in tow.

Andy and Rachel soon followed and before we knew it the night had reached 10pm and yet the bar was still surprisingly empty. Moving downstairs in search of a livelier scene, the bar was much more of what we're used to. Four-deep at the bar, nightmare journey's to and from the lavatories, and a live 'Green Day' tribute band. Much more acceptable, although it still didn't really have that Christmas fizz about it. Midnight came and went without so much as a countdown, and although we were all out until well gone 3am, the festive spirit never really materialised outside of our twenty-strong British group.

We were already aware that it is backpacker tradition to visit Bondi Beach on Christmas Day, and not one to mess with such a notion, we rose early and caught the bus over to the bustling coastal town some five kilometres south-east of the city.

At 11am, the long strip of sand and beachside cafes were brimming with people making the most of the sunshine and twenty-four degree temperatures when it really should be bitterly cold. Fish and chip lunches and a quick dip in the freezing seas with it's crashing waves ensued as the thumping bassline from the nearby Gatecrasher gig provided a monotonous beat to the day. With the wind picking up considerably in the late afternoon, we all decided to call it a day and head for a bar in Kings Cross that was supposedly open for the evening. Incorrectly informed, we arrived to find the doors firmly closed and wandered the city streets in search of an establishment that might be serving booze. Defeated however, we returned to our hostel at 10pm, watched some very uninspiring television and went to bed. Certainly a very different christmas experience for us, but if we're honest, we did miss our roast dinner with all the trimmings.

With little to do on Boxing Day, we took advantage of a lie-in and then ventured into town to take a look at the opening day of the post-christmas sales. The crowds however were way too much for us to deal with and after returning to our hostel briefly to change clothes, we headed out for the evening, again in the general direction of Scruffy's, where another band was playing, and I got to watch a quite entertaining game of Premiership football. Watching your team play football at 1am, in a packed nightclub with handful of fellow fans is a truly enlightening experience and one I can wholeheartedly recommend, especially if they win.

With the sun still shining, and a bad spell predicted, we though it best to take advantage and get back to the beach while we still could. Coogee beach, about two kilometres south of Bondi and just a twenty minute ride away on a bus that stopped directly outside our hostel, seemed like a logical choice. Smaller and cleaner than it's higher profile neighbour, this was a nice but uneventful day, rounded off with dinner back at the hostel and much need chance to save some money.

After checking the weather reports, it seemed that the imminent rainy spell wasn't quite as imminent as the forecasters had quite thought, and so we arranged to meet up with Steve, the guy we had just travelled most of New Zealand with. To achieve this, we first had to catch the ferry across to Manly, an ideal opportunity to see some of Sydney's coastline from the waters of the harbour. Manly lies about ten kilometres from the heart of Sydney's ferry ports at Circular Quay and is reportedly the 'Jewel of the North Shores'. With it's own harbour, shopping mall and all the trappings of a toursity beach destination, it certainly holds its own as an appealing resort away from the over-populated city centre. Another day of general lounging in the sun soon became the order of the day, and a few beers in the local seafront pub for old times sake would have been perfect, except for the fact that we had to sit through yet another embarrassing display of English cricket.

That evening, we once again met up with Andy and Rachel, who had returned from their three day jaunt in the countryside. To the west of the city is Darling Harbour, and entering this place at night is a sight to behold. The lights emmenating from the snazzy harbourside restaurants over the numerous private yachts in their moorings set the whole scene of this once thriving docklands area alight with colour and glitz. Probably not the sort of place that most backpackers would choose to dine out in, but our friends had very kindly offered to take us to dinner, insisting it was an invitation we should readily accept. After the best quality meal we'd had in a long time, we all merrily headed back to George Street and a busy bar called the Three Monkey's, where we finished off the night with a few beers and an enlighting chat with an inebriated Aussie chap whose self-confessed problem was that he 'knew too much about English football'. After an insightful chat in which it was made abundantly clear he didn't know anything about English football, chatting about legends of the nineties as if they were still playing in the present day and enacting how a tackle should really be won (generally using his head or his kneecap), we could entertain him no more and hastily removed ourselves to an upstairs bar before calling it a night.

The next day the four of us took a drive out to the National Park just south of the city in the rental car Andy still had under agreement, with a nice day consisting of lunch in the park with some giant Paraqueets and a visit to a scenic beach lagoon with rocky headlands, which of course we climbed and scrambled across as boys should.

That evening, we headed for Govinda's, where a tenner gets you an all-you-can-eat indian buffet and a movie in their cool in-house cinema with lounge-style beds to stretch out on. 'Thank You for Smoking' (Recommended!) was a cynical and darkly humoured look at the tobacco industry and this rounded off another enjoyably relaxing day.

Finally, it looked like we would be able to get out and see the other icon of Sydney: it's famous Opera House. Construction of this, the most photographed building in the world, began in 1959 when a Danish architect called Jorn Utzon won an international design competition.

Much political interference however caused him to quit the project in disgust several years later, leaving a consortium of Australian architects to design a compromised interior at a much more elevated cost. Finally completed in 1973, it was lumbered with an impractical internal design for staging opera's, but to this day still attracts much attention for its sleek and stylish external prowess.

It's quite surreal to finally be standing in front of something you've seen in photo's and film many of times before, but the shell-like exterior, made of hundreds of thousands of small tiles, is still a mesmerising sight. The crowds in the general vicinity make it relatively difficult to take an unobscured snap, but after a bit of patience we think we managed to engineer a few decent shots.

After quick stroll around the famous building, we headed around to the Royal Botanical Gardens in the next bay, where plant life from the south pacific live in harmony with majestic lake swans and the resident colony of fruit bats who spend their days chittering loudly and hanging around upside down until it's time to commute south across the city at dusk.

It was nice to lie around in the park watching the mad joggers sweating in the sweltering mid-afternoon sun and a couple of weddings pass happily by. With our heavily hit budget in mind, we retired to the hostel and a nutritious cup-a-soup dinner which we'd been saving for a special occassion.

It felt like it had only been a couple of days since christmas, and yet New Years Eve was upon us. Plans for what to do that evening had been left until quite late, but after a quick lunch with Steve for his birthday, and a few beers with Andy and Rachel, we took ourselves by train over to the northern shores to the party being held by the Irish crowd. Not only was their flat in a prime position to see the flurry of fireworks expected for the evening, the view from their balcony looking out onto the Bridge from the west, but it also seemed like the cheap and relatively hassle-free option. Many people had been out on the headlands, locked inside especially constructed enclosures since as early as 9am that morning, and we were glad to be free of this kind of desperate measure.

After a few drinks we all assembled for the first set of fireworks scheduled for 9pm, which is when of course, our camera decided to freeze-up and die with outstanding punctuality. A little disappointing to say the least, but with promises of photo sharing from other party guests we could at least focus on watching the spectacle unfolding before us; namely, twenty minutes of fantastic pyrotechnics being fired from a series of barges strategically placed in the harbour waters. More drinks and general socialising ensued, and soon after it was time to head outside into the park oppostite for the main event. With the bridge appearing to catch fire at the stroke of midnight, and another series of fireworks lighting the night sky all around us, the celebrations truly began. Old Langs Eyne was completely abandoned in favour of a multitude of Irish songs we had never heard of, but the effect was still the same. We hung around for a few more hours, happy that we'd got to see the New Year in with a nice crowd, but obviously missing the usual familiarity of being with friends and family.

For New Years Day we had a disastrous farewell lunch with Andy and Rachel at The Rocks (anyone for bone in their chicken pie?), took a few calls from some family and inebriated friends at home who were finishing up their own party, and generally used the day to get over our hangovers and plan for the coming the few days.

Our first job was to get ourselves a new camera, an unfortunate but necessary expense, and organising our hire car for the south coast trip. A quick visit to the Blue Mountains, so called because of the hue created by the vapourous gum trees, was one thing we had left on our to-do list, and so we jumped a two-hour train west of Sydney to the famous region.

Anyone who has been to one of our barbecues will not be surprised to hear that it absolutely hammered down the moment we alighted the train, coating the usually picturesque valley in a cloud of mist and fog which rendered many of the attractions useless. A short reprise in the downfalls did give us a few moments to take some rather gloomy snaps of the famous Three Sisters, but generally it wasn't worth hanging around.

It was on this evening that Sarah finally lost her big toe-nail, in scary (for her) but fairly amusing (for me) circumstances. The Inca Trail of two months previous is being accused as the catalyst for the unfortunate loss, and we await with a mixture of dread and frivolity (see above) for the other to follow suit.

One last day in Sydney meant we could take a walk across the famous bridge and get a few more close up shots and also have a stroll around the large Paddy's market, an institutional haven for cheap goods of all varieties.

The thought of spending any more money soon scuppered our ideas to meet up for one last night out, so we had a ring round to say goodbye to those hanging around in Sydney or heading off in other directions, and had a quiet final night in with our room-mates.

All-in-all, a great couple of weeks catching up with some good friends from both home and on-the-road, and an alternative christmas to what we have previously been used to. Sydney deserves alot of time, and I think that in our two weeks we managed to cover a great deal, walking further in this short time than we probably have in the last year! It was time however to leave it all behind until our return in a couple of months to start our East-Coast expedition, and head for what would hopefully be a cheaper and more relaxed discovery of the southern coasts towards Adelaide.

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It was a sunny early evening when we arrived at Melbourne International airport, to be met by our friends Tash and Scott who we spent some time with in Buenos Aires back in late September. They had kindly offered to put us up in their newly acquired South Yarra flat, and although we'd only intended on staying for a couple of nights, they had insisted that we use their place as our base for the entirety of our stay.

After a good nights sleep, we were driven over to Victoria Markets, a large undercover area selling all manner of wares, from clothes and souvenirs, to fruit, vegetables and the main reason for our visit: fresh meat. The plan was to buy an assortment of meats from one of the many butchers and spend the afternoon using one of the free barbeque facilities scattered along the nearby Yarra riverbank.

The concept of people randomly turning up at a public area and taking advantage of the free cooking areas without squabbling was a little beyond our comprehension, but we found it to be a very pleasant afternoon with some outstanding scenes of sickly amiability. Where were the uncomfortable displays of self-importance? It was disappointing not to see a single show of 'barbie-rage' all afternoon. We will be writing to the British government as a matter of urgency to suggest a similar venture for the banks of Erith and Thamesmead's waterside areas, perhaps sponsored by Morrison's? Following a few riverside afternoon beverages, that evening we went for drinks in the city centre and met a few our hosts friends who were out celebrating a birthday.

Despite the heavy and late night, we were all up early for a drive down to the Healesville and its popular sanctuary, where for 70 years, this huge bush park has played a leading role in the care and protection of Australian wildlife. First stop was the reptile house, where one of the resident experts manhandled a number of dangerous snakes and gave sound advice on what to do in the event of a bite. We were surprisingly all ears.

Next, we stopped in at the Birds of Prey show, where four different species flew within a whisker of the crowds (Sarah and her strange 'bird fear' loved that part) and showed off their distinct hunting techniques. This was followed by some old fella who ran around unsuccessfully throwing boomerangs and generally teasing the kids. It was then off for a quick tour of the park on foot to see the Kangaroo's sleeping, large Koala's getting stoned on their daily eucalyptus intake, and a platypus swimming manically in constant circles. All entertaining stuff, and something we were grateful to be taken to see.

With Scott back at work the following day and Tash doing some serious job-hunting, we took ourselves off for the day. With over three million people residing in Melbourne's many suburbs, and a vast array of neighbourhoods to visit we knew we'd have our work cut out for us. A mixture of Victorian-era architecture and cutting edge futuristic developments, with lumbering trams running their courses back and forth around the city, the sleepy pace of the site for our
first foray into Australian life was almost ideal.

A gentle stroll alongside the Yarra river towards the ever-nearing City skyline brings you past the splendidly gothic looking Flinders Street station and by contrast the newly installed Federation Square with it's modern array of trendy cafe's and museum spaces.

To get our bearings we jumped onto the free City Circle Tram, passing a few of the government buildings at the eastern end of the city centre before alighting at the Old Melbourne Gaol. This 19th Century prison was home to some of Australia's most renowned bad-boys and naughty-girls from the crime-laden Gold Rush era of the 1850's, including the infamous Ned Kelly who was hanged here along with 136 others in the prison's eighty year existence.

Life here was tough, with prisoners kept in permanant solitary confinement; the use of 'silence hoods' forbidding anyone to talk with or recognise any of their fellow inmates; murderer's and gangsters living under the same roof as vagrants and bankrupts. This wasn't really a tour we'd intended on taking but turned into quite an interesting site, with very striking imagery of a time not so long past. We spent the rest of our day looking around the harbour area and the bustling city streets.

A day of labourious, but required events, like getting washing done and booking onward travel intervened before we walked the Yarra back into the City yet again, and a moving image exhibition that had taken my eye on our previous visit. Once my only slightly willing companion had reached her optimum boredom level and the fidgeting began, I gave up watching some quite interesting student animations and short films, and we made our way to Chapel Street to continue with the all-important quest to find some nice 'going-out tops' for Sarah. With Christmas in Sydney fast approaching, this was a do-or-die requirement, and the aforementioned area with it's mixture of trendy boutiques and, more importantly, budget-style shops was ideal. With our mission accomplished in just under two hours of shopping we stopped for dinner in a reasonable street-side restaurant and pulled in for a quick pint or two in the nearby pub.

For our final day in 'Melbers' we took a stroll through the nearby Botanic Gardens, crossing the impressive Shrine of Rememberance, a memorial built in honour of the Victorian's killed in World War Two, on our way to the Crown Complex, a large hotel and shopping site containing a huge casino.

We'd already seen that gambling is a big part of Aussie culture, with betting shops on every street corner, but this place really took the biscuit. It was only 2pm, but the whole floor was packed with enthusiastic punters throwing their cash at the large array of 'Pokie' machines and Roulette and Black Jack tables. The seedy lower-level Poker floor was quite interesting and Sarah had to drag me away to prevent me from having a little flutter. This however, was a bit of a detour on our part, when we were really here to see what was supposed to be a spectacular Christmas display, but turned out to be a slightly over-billed automated light and sound show.

That evening we suggested a night out in St Kilda, as we'd heard this is where all of the backpackers generally stay, and this would be the most likely place to see some live music. After a quick stroll around the night market, we settled in at 'The Espy', a cool yet grand looking hotel bar. A band were in attendance, but due to the stifling heat we decided to retreat to the relative coolness of the garden to put away a few jugs of VB. This would have to be an area to revisit on our way back through our upcoming journey via the south coast.

Melbourne is definitely an entertaining and culturally diverse city, with lots to offer all manner of tourist whatever their taste. As per usual, we probably didn't get to see everything but with a return visit in mind we knew all was not lost and we felt we'd had a pretty good crack at it. Staying at our friends was a money-saving luxury we were very grateful for, although fully aware we can't have it both ways, did feel that we missed out on the backpacker scene a little. For now, we were off to Melbourne's arch rival city, and although we weren't massively looking forward to the twelve-hour Greyhound coach journey, we were excited once again to be meeting up with a few of our travelling buddies from our journey so far, and some good friends from home over the christmas period.

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After a smooth sail across the Cook Strait to Picton, where we ingeniously entertained ourselves with an improvised game of 'condiment poker' using sachets of salt, pepper, sugar and tea for chips, we were whisked through the surrounding vineyard country to our hostel in Nelson.

It was, for once, a good choice on our part, with good kitchen facilities, a very spic-and-span feel and a great garden to bask in the sunshine. The only down side was that it happened to be owned and run by a couple (the lovely Royce and Linda) who have to be two of the most blatant money-grabbers we're ever likely to encounter; so much so that we felt it necessary to constantly tease them with requests for discounts and refunds. Coupled with the fact that Royce liked to address us as 'Team' every time we came through the door, he would probably rank up there with one of the most annoying individuals we've ever met.

Nelson is only a small town so myself and Steve took out some bikes to take in some of the scenery, and generally dossed around in a bar we found offering free pool tables in the afternoons. Our main aim whilst in Nelson however, was to take a highly recommended day trip kayaking in the Abel Tasman National Park. This beautiful stretch of idyllic coastline can be found on the north-western edge of the South Island, and is renowned for it's secluded bays and seal colonies. This area is named after a Dutch sailor who would have been the very first Westerner to discover New Zealand had he been brave enough to step ashore to face the gruesome looking Mauri's. He did end up claiming Tasmania for Holland, but completely missed Australia, which it has to be said, is a bit of a schoolboy error on his part.

Rising at 5am for our pick-up, we were just about to pull away when the trip was cancelled due to high winds and stormy seas. We were due to leave town the next day, but altered our plans to try once more.

Our persistence paid off when we were fortunate enough to wake to clear blue skies the following morning. After a water-taxi had taken us out to our starting point, we were given a quick briefing and soon found ourselves paddling away from the shore. Despite looking like a fairly straightforward exercise, it only takes an hour or so for your arms to really start aching.

The morning kept pretty calm for us, which made our journey all the easier, and after a fairly leisurely paddle up the coast we stopped for our lunch and more tales of New Zealand's history from Kyle, our exuberant guide. After lunch, the sea became particularly choppy, and it was a real battle to make it through the rising swells.

Finally we reached the Tonga Island Colony, and rested our tired limbs by letting the tide skirt us around the shores in search of the resident seals. We only managed to spot a couple, one of whom showed off his skills by giving us a little wave goodbye as we raised our makeshift 'sail' and let the wind whip us into shore. With the water-taxi ride back to the starting point, our long and tiresome day was over, but an experience we were glad we could partake in.

Back on the bus for our onward journey, we stopped at another more slightly populated seal colony, where we managed to get up close and personal for a few good snaps.

Some fella who was wearing a bright green t-shirt managed to really aggravate the little fella's, which gave us some great photo's. We arrived in Greymouth in the late afternoon, for the only thing that anyone ever stops here for: the famous Montieth's Brewery Tour.

After being whisked around the factory by a guide who told us all about the brewing process at an average rate of 800 words per minute, we were then led to the main event: the tasting session. In just under one hour we sampled at least half a pint of all eight of the different ales, returned for our free pouring photographic opportunity (another couple of beers obviously), and then managed to hold off until the last minibus run so we could squeeze a couple of extra jars in.

It's safe to say we got our money's worth, and a good job too considering what we were unwittingly preparing ourselves for.

Transported to what can only be described as a dodgy social club, we settled in for an all-you-can-eat barbeque. Consisting of sausages, sausages and er, sausages, it wasn't long before we were all back in the bar to wash our splendid dinner down with some more Montieth's Original and a few games of pool. This was soon crashed by Shane, the resident DJ and competitive type, who was quick to offer up a challenge. Not something I'd usually balk at, but the fact that this guy was a midget and could barely see over the table was a worry. There had to be a catch, and being the first to beat him meant that I was the player on the receiving end of the wee-man's big little strop. Not easily deterred however, he then invited us to a doubles game, during which Sarah got collared photographing our first midget-pool experience when the flash went off unexpectedly, prompting the vertically-challenged chap to hoist me onto his shoulder for a 'real' photo.

Not content with this tiny portion of the limelight, he then proceeded to wrestle Steve to the floor WWF style. Little-man syndrome at it's best...

Back on the bus the very next morning, we were unfortunately lumped with a bus driver who had to rate up there with one of the most irratable and miserable characters we're ever likely to come across. Most of the passengers were highly amused when a lady randomly misjudged the angle of her turn and managed to crash her trailer into the front of his bus, sparking a real blow-out on his part, and plenty of denials from us of having seen anything when he asked for witnesses. I think the next step is for most of us to write to Magic asking why this man has a job in hospitality. Luckily it was only a short drive to Franz Josef, a small ski-style resort in the midst of the Southern Alps.

The south-west of New Zealand's south island is Glacier country, and lies in the path of the moisture-laden winds that drive across the open miles of the southern ocean. The Pacific and Australian tectonic plates meet along the alpine fault, which cuts diagonally through the South Island and Franz Josef village. As the wind flow is pushed up over the mountains, a process called 'Organic Lift', the raising cloud is forced to drop huge volumes of rain and snow, giving rise to some of the most dynamic glaciers in the world. Formed by the remaining winter snow that the summer melt has been unable to remove from the cooler heights, the Franz Josef Glacier is the crowning glory. Each year, another layer of snow is added, where time and it's own weight soon transforms this residual snow into glacial ice, which then oozes it's way down valley to melt away in the warmer temperatures. Normally, glaciers move slowly, typically thirty or forty metres per year. The massive snowfalls at the head of the Franz Josef glacier however, means that the rate of ice turnover is amongst the highest in the world, upwards of 2.5 meters per day.

Spending time in Franz means you take any number of excursions onto the glacier, but we were yet again thwarted by bad weather when the heli-hike was cancelled at the last minute. Instead, we contented ourselves with a half-day guided hike, with the aptly named Cliff. Faced with an almost verticle wall of ice, and the reassuring notice board to keep clear in case of unexpected collapse, we donned our crampons and prepared for the ascent.

A quick safety briefing and we were off into the ice. It's strangley surreal to be walking amoungst the dripping walls of a potentially unstable block of ice, but an excellent tour none-the-less, with some rather hairy looking crevasses that disappear into the depths and a tight squeeze through an underground carvern.

Unfortunately, time permitted only about two hours on the glacier itself, and it wasn't long before we were being transported back into town.

Leaving early next morning, we travelled down to Lake McKenzie with it's stunning views of Mount Cook, before being driven on to the picturesque town of Wanaka.

Nestled alongside a giant lake, this was our favourite town in New Zealand, small, quaint and beautiful; a welcome break from the constant day-to-day travel on the bus. We stayed in a traditional ski-lodge, overlooking the blue lake waters, and spent a nice evening having drinks on the patio with some fellow travellers we had previosly met in Nelson, where Steve yet again had his digger out in the hunt for his future wife, a project we'd been secretly enlisted in since our chance meeting in Taupo.

The next morning we took ourselves off to the popular Puzzleworld attraction. As the name would suggest, this slightly geeky theme-park made for quite an entertaining morning, browsing the numerous strange rooms.

The faces that follow, the perspective room, a technique coincidentally used in Lord of the Rings, and the nauseous 'angled room' where nothing is as it seems all played a part, until we finally made it outside to the giant maze, which was predictably not as enthralling as many would quite hope.

Sadly, time was against us, and so after two days in the idyllic town we moved on to the party and adventure capital of Queenstown. Passing by the world's first bunjee jump which we bottled completely, we arrived in the early evening and went straight for the much preferable passtime of heavy drinking.

A good night was had by all, with all of us eventually ending up in a nightclub where cocktails are drunk in record time by the shot-glass, poured cordially from traditional teapots. Numerous bars, a couple of nightclubs, and a late night Fergburger (probably the best burger in the world!) made for a standard evening on the lash in this part of the world.

For the rest of our time here we amused ourselves with luge rides at the top of the gondola, some truly over-rated crazy golf and a trip to the much lauded Milford Sound.

A five hour drive through the cool temperate rainforest of the Fjiordland National Park in the south-west area of the country, and a three-quarter mile long tunnel brought us to the stunning ferry port at Milford. This was followed by a further two hour cruise through the valley, carved out by advancing and retreating ice glaciers over thousands of years. Spying some playful dolphins swimming under the front of the liner and some typically lazy seals basking in the afternoon sun was a nice bonus on what had been a long days travel.

Back in Queenstown, there was time for one more night on the town before grabbing our hire car and heading to the southern-most town on Invercargill. The bus didn't include this part of the trip, so we thought that our own car might break up the monotony of the long coach trips. Invercargill itself is a strange, scottish-style seaside town, with unfortunately very little to offer the curious tourist, it's claim to fame being that Burt Munrow, one of it's inhabitants, once took his bike across to America and broke the land-speed record.

One night here was more than enough, and so we took the rest of our time with the hire car to traverse our way up the Catlin's Coast area, famed for it's natural wildlife. Stopping for numerous points along the way such as the Petrified Forest (a fossilised area of centuries old trees by the sea), photo opportunities at Slope Point (the most southernly point of mainland New Zealand) and Nugget Point (a highly populated Seal Colony and picturesque headland) we finally arrived in Dunedin after a hard days stop-start driving.

Navigating successfully to our hostel, we were roomed handily with a girl who claimed to have insomnia (despite snoring like a trooper), and needed to have the hostel's cat in her bed for 'good karma'. Just another example of one of the many characters we tend to meet on our journey.

Dunedin is the main centre of Otago, a region recognised for its spectacular scenery, with dramatic bush-covered hills and valleys at the head of a long natural harbour. Scottish migrants established a town here in the 1850's, giving it the name of Edinburgh until gold was discovered some 120 kilometres inland about a decade or so later and the small settlement was renamed Dunedin when it became the centre of Otago's wealth, inspiring the development of soaring cathedral spires, fine banks, a flemish-style railway station, university buildinjgs and a nineteenth-century castle, all of which are still architectural treasures.

After a well deserved lie-in, the three of us donned our supplied head-gear and took part in the all-important Cadbury World tour. Considering that we'd managed to eat our way through a fair selection of the multiple-flavoured chocolate bars over the last month, it seemed only right that we go along and see how it's all produced.

Like all good tourist orientated tours, it was a speedy trip, whisking us through all of the relevant sections of the factory, plying us with the occassional freebie and offering up the odd fact, none of which we could actually remember by the end of it. We did see a chocolate waterfall though which was pretty cool, if slightly sickly. There was time for a little sightseeing, and a spot of shop browsing before we had an easy night in preparation for rejoining the bus the next morning.

Collected bright and early, our first stop on our way out of Dunedin was the World's Steepest Road. Like dutiful tourists, we played the game and struggled our way up the incline, just to say that we'd done it.

It wasn't massively interesting, and we can't really imagine what the poor people who live there must think of the crowds that pile up an down their street every day. Moving house isn't an option I expect. Also en-route were a pleasant, but mildly pointless bunch of boulders, which of course, just had to be photographed.

The penultimate stop on our trip was Lake Tekapo, another small country village sitting beside a large body of water. With little to do here bar admire the scenery, the driver organised a barbeque which we all helped prepare, followed by a card game called 'Sh*thead' with some french girls who we became good pals with, and a challenging game which involved picking up a box with my teeth, without letting your hands and knees touch the floor. I succeeded in making myself look suitably silly whilst Sarah cleverly played spectator, quoting knee pains as her get-out.

Hangovers were in abundance the next morning for our short journey to Christchurch. After a short sharp stroll around the town in the afternoon, one last night on the lash with Steve, who we were finally going to be shot of after three weeks on the road, and our new French mates was all we really had time for. A cheesy nightclub full of teenagers wasn't really what we'd have opted for, but we went with the crowd and were not surprised to find that it wasn't really our bag and so politely retreated to the Irish pub next door for a truly appalling cover-style band.

New Zealand for us was done and dusted, and if we were to be honest, we would probably have to admit that we didn't really give it the attention it deserved. For any future venture, we would definitely take matters into our own hands and hire a car to get ourselves off of the tourist trail a little. Not to say that the Magic Bus was a bad choice. We'd made some good friends, and definitely saw the highlights of this spectacularly beautiful country, even if it was a bit of a whistlestop tour. Our mood and opinions however had dramatically imrproved once we'd become accustomed to the way things work, and although the weather had hampered our efforts on occassion, we were on the whole a little sad that we couldn't devote a little more time to the place.

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