Roses (Te Anau to Queenstown - Cromwell New Zealand)

Well hello dear reader, yes I'm still alive and wandering about the seventh state. One Kiwi confided in us that they referred to Australia as the West Island. It makes sense, North Island, South Island, West Island. Out of courtesy, I didn't point out how we refer to them. Anyway, it's been a few days since I posted, and in that time, we have travelled from beautiful, serene Te Anau to Queenstown and out to Cromwell for a day trip. The weather has continued to do its thing, a sort of reversal of NSW South Coast weather, dodgy in the morning and beautiful in the afternoon. Despite the number of people dressed for Antarctic expeditions, I have resorted to the jumper once and quickly dismissed it as an unnecessary accoutrement.

The drive from Te Anau to Queenstown was uneventful, and we encountered the usual timidity of the drivers here, eschewing to overtake unless there was a specific lane. We attempted to stop for coffee at Kingston but the limited parking was already at saturation point so we continued our journey with ever depleting caffeine levels. Like many picturesque drives in New Zealand, the road wended its way around the edge of a waterway. In this case Lake Wakatipu, a sizeable and spectacular body of water, its colour changes with the light and level of cloud cover.

No staircase visible.

We paused at the Devil's Staircase for a kodak moment (there's one to google kids). Again, breathtaking scenery, but we have no idea why it was so named.

And still not ...

As we drew ever closer to Queenstown, the traffic became heavier and the 'mobile home' drivers less keen to observe the signage, "Cars behind you? Let them pass." Progress slowed to peak hour in Sydney pace. There were numerous reasons for this; shit drivers, inability to understand the concept of a roundabout, how to drive on a roundabout, roadworks, one road in - one road out (all single lane), all roads leading to Queenstown, sightseeing morons who thought driving while sightseeing was a thing, and shit drivers.

It's just stunning, eh?

We arrived at the hotel just before check-in time but happily our room was ready. The car was valeted away, parking is at a premium in this town, and we went to get settled before our first exploration of the town. Queenstown, as in the food/shopping precinct is a few blocks bordered by lake and mountain. There are numerous options for food and gift shopping. We attempted to book some tours for the next two days, unsuccessfully. It appears it is a good idea to to pre-book everything when coming to Queenstown. One particular excursion we were interested in was fully booked, with all companies for the next four days.

As it was post lunch, we were intending to look for possibilities for dinner. In doing so we stumbled upon The Cow, a pizza and pasta place in the aptly named Cow Lane.

The entrance to the gardens.

The Cow had come highly recommended and we expected it to be closed mid-afternoon on a Friday, but no, it was open. Happy days. Into the barn like structure we walked and ordered beers while we looked at the menu. As this was going to be lunch and dinner, we ordered garlic bread with the pizza. The pizza came in two sizes 11 inches or 14, or for the metric lovers amongst you 28cm or just over 35cm. Her Majesty's Pleasure was the choice.

The beer was enjoyable, it was good to be out of the car, I was relaxing and looking forward to the pizza and then the garlic bread arrived. I was so stunned I forgot to take a picture. Garlic bread? How about garlic loaf! It was a small loaf of freshly baked, garlic infused bread, served warm on a board with butter and a serrated knife. It could have easily served as dinner for both of us.

There were some interesting sculptures in the garden.

Then the pizza arrived. Not traditional, as we've come to expect, but with a good base and plenty of topping. The extras in the topping were mysteriously listed as "herbs", the flavour of dill was interesting and the crunch of celery was most curious, but not out of place. We made a valiant attempt to eat what was set before us. Epic fail (as they still say over here). A pizza box was added to our carry home shopping that afternoon.

Spanish chestnut ... apparently.

Dinner? Not required. Exercise, that was needed. A walk around the Queenstown Gardens was in order where we saw some interesting sights, some of the park and others not. Disc golf, have I mentioned that yet? The park provides another disc golf course. It's like golf, but not. Instead of clubs and a ball you have a disc (frisbee in my world). You throw the disc at this metal construction that catches it in chains and drops it into a trough. Ok, that is a very rough description. After the excitement of watching people play disc golf, we repaired to our room for nibbles and wine.

It's a dog ... ok then, you decide.

This is a big post, two day's worth, so you may wish to pause here. Or if you're a fan of Clueless, absolutely pause.

The next day began predictably. The weather was "cold" so I wore a jumper (for 10 minutes, it wasn't cold). The sky was marked with cloud that occasionally tried to rain, but could barely manage a sprinkle. We were heading to wine country, Bannockburn and Cromwell. Cromwell. Really? Who names a town after a piece of detritus from English history? You may as well have named the place Plague or Festering Sore or Hitler, you get the drift. I digress.

Looking up towards the gondola.

The fascination of these areas outside of Queenstown is wine. Shocked, I know, dear reader. And the aforementioned tour we could not book with any of the five companies? Yes, dear reader, a wine tour. So, I drove, after we consumed some left over pizza and garlic bread from The Cow.

What do I know about this particular wine region of New Zealand you ask? Well, it produces wine and I like to drink wine. A relationship made in heaven. We had a list of six wineries recommended to us by our wine person at United Cellars and thought we might visit a couple. In preparation I visited each website and recorded opening hours. Curiously, not one winery required tastings to be pre-booked, unlike Australia in a post-COVID, short-staffed world.

It's even steeper up close.

Gibbston Valley Wines is about a 30 minute drive from Queenstown. At around 10am we joined the rest of the peak hour crawl out of town toward Frankton and beyond. The further away from the two towns the more the traffic thinned. We arrived at Gibbston Valley around 10:30 just as the tour of their grape vines left. Good timing we thought. Not so fast with the good vibes. Walking into the tasting room we see a number of smaller tour groups already here. It was loud, but we persevered, because that's what you do. Their tastings are very, very, tourist oriented with minimal contact with anyone - let alone an employee who knows the wines. We purchased our wine paddle ... seriously, this is sad, and positioned ourselves as far away from tour group as possible. The next province would still have been too close, it was a hen's party! FML! Inebriated, screeching girls all trying to speak over the top of each other. 

We liked the wines despite the ambiance but unusually purchased nothing because of their extremely weird system. We could order the wines we liked and have them shipped home for $114 freight (in packs of 9 or 15), or we could order from the Australian distributor that had NOT any of the actual wines we'd tried. "Oh, they are similar" said our backpacker-server who had not tasted the wines. No chance buddy. The hens had left in a cloud of cheap perfume with full glasses of rosé, tripping over themselves as they did so and we followed shortly thereafter, tripping gaily along (without wine) hoping our paths would not cross again.

The view from the top.

The next stop was Misha's Wines in Cromwell. I just can't get over the name, such a unifying figure in history. What a different experience. No hen's party, there was a birthday party and a tour group, but no squealing or yelling. Our hostess, Jeanette, was delightful, warm, friendly and passionate about wine. What an excellent beginning, so it was no surprise that we loved the wines. They have an excellent online ordering system that factors in delivery and whatever currency you need to use. You'll not be surprised, dear reader, to know that 15 bottles of Misha's finest are flying back home sometime soon. We also purchased a couple of travellers and a cow (Central Otago Wines) apron.

Annabelle the cow

In the course of our wine discussions, Carrick Wines were mentioned as worthy of a visit. That became our next destination. The drive was back to Bannockburn and when we arrived, the car park was full. Everyone appeared to be in the restaurant. After we told them were merely after a tasting, we were redirected to the cellar door, which was devoid of life. More importantly it was bereft of staff to serve us wine. We tried the door. Locked. We waited. No one came despite the restaurant staff indicating someone would be there soon. So we left.

It's a long way up.

In the mid afternoon, the sun had well and truly appeared. Back at the hotel, we left the car for the valet, dropped our Misha's wines in our room and walked to the gondola. 

The gondola is one of Queenstown's must-do attractions. It is at the opposite end of town from where we are staying which means about a 10-15 minute walk. The queue was not particularly long, so we joined. There are a number of options; a return gondola ride or you could include lunch/dinner or a luge ride, or combine these with a multiple day pass. We opted for the return trip only.

I can see our hotel.

As the queue moved, we watched the mountain bikers coming down the last of the run. They joined the gondola queue from the other side and the staff alternated the gondola cabins between the day trippers and the bikers. As we settled into our gondola, a woman jumped in with us saying move over. That was unexpected. We looked at her and by way of explanation she merely said, "I am German". Of course, I thought, that says everything. Perhaps I should remind her that they lost the war. But no, Jayne tried tact and attempted to involve her in conversation, unsuccessfully, her English was about as good as our German. We lost our friend at the summit and never saw her again. We had outlived our usefulness.

The gondola is the steepest in the Southern Hemisphere. Buzz buzz. We have this inferiority complex down here so we feel the need to reference everything to the northern hemisphere or say it's world class. Whatever. It was very bloody steep and the view from the top is, well, pretty tidy. I have the pictures to prove it.

The lake goes forever.

As we joined the queue to go back to reality, there were parts of a tour group also waiting to join the line. One woman in particular embodied everything I despise about some international travellers. She was speaking so loudly to her friends you couldn't help but hear. Even with the gondola machinery grinding away, she could be heard above it. And she was wearing her VIP tag high on her shoulder. Everything said look at me, I'm filthy rich. When she finally joined the queue she was directly behind Jayne and pushed up against her several times as we moved slowly and inexorably toward the gondola cabin. Choose the nationality that you wish to smear with your casual racism. All will become clear.

As an aside, what is with shouting at people when they are standing next to you, or are seated at the same table? Do you want to be noticed? Should I know who you are? How about just shut up and speak at a volume that reflects where you are, not who you think you are.

Finally we reached gondola cabin entry point and in we get, both facing the downhill run for the best views. Just as our cabin swings around the corner a man looms in the open doorway and asks can he get in? I say no, Jayne says of course. Our uninterrupted view of the mountain descent has now been obscured. What is it with us? I saw so many cabins on the move with just two people. If only the door closing was manual.

So, our interloper takes up his seat and reveals that he is the tour guide for 100 people, three coaches, the people who were pushing against Jayne in the queue, the ones speaking at the top of their voices. I don't care. I wish him dead, or at least out of my cabin and all the way back to the Punjab with his 100 guests.

On the way to the base, he proved he had little understanding of cricket or rugby, although he professed to be a devotee of both. Back in Queenstown and rid of 'the German' and the 'tour guide', we made our way home via The Winery, but decided not to stop for a tasting. That will have to wait until tomorrow.

A random duck in the rose garden.

And before I go, the title is from a 2014 album of the same name by Dragon. It references roses and wine drinking. Well, that gets my attention straight away. Sorry, I couldn't find any audio.

Until next time ...