Slipping Away (Greymouth to sunshine, sorry, Nelson, New Zealand)

It is quite obvious, dear reader, that I shall never pass this way again, unless I'm being held hostage, at gunpoint. The people at our accommodation were lovely. We also met some delightful people elsewhere and the coffee at the café was good, but that is about it. Not really enough to recommend it.

Even as we drive away from Greymouth, I'm still uncertain as to whether the comment "We need the rain," was genuine or a genuine piss-take of a tourist. We drove past fields semi-submerged as we left town. The landscape is not  crying out, "We need more rain!". In fact it was saying "Enough already!". How can I be sure?

So glad you asked. After Declan taking us through the equivalent of deliverance country on our journey to Greymouth, we were double checking all directions on the way to Nelson. Not that we don't trust him. Just checking. We knew our route was Highway 7 and then 69, stop it, don't be so immature, and then Highway 6 into Nelson. As we approached Highway 7, Declan changed tack and directed us to Highway 6. We needed petrol so I doubled back to the servo to fill up and Jayne decided to discuss the best route to Nelson with the lady at the service station.

Back out on the road, the clouds were crying out, "Oh, ye of little faith!". Highway 7 was closed due to a massive landslip. Another sign that the rain wasn't really needed. Declan, good lad, was diverting us around the road closure. He's a good boy. I never doubted him. Unlike Jayne.

Although we didn't see the slip that closed the highway, we saw many more as we drove toward Nelson. Hence today's title Slipping Away from Max Merritt and The Meteors from 1975. It was the regular drive you would expect on Kiwi country roads, sorry, highways. Random roadwork with temporary speed reductions, the occasional contra flow, mobile homes not moving over to let lighter, faster vehicles past, logging trucks, one lane bridges, possum roadkill. Nothing unexpected. The scenery is always interesting, but not interesting enough to make me stop for a photo. It is a bit repetitive.

New Zealand is like Canada in many ways. I view both countries as outdoor adventure parks for adults. If you're into walking (tramping over here), skiing, snowboarding, white water rafting, bungy jumping ... this is the place for you. Even the scenery can be similar with the craggy, pine covered mountains and glacier-carved landscape. The biggest difference? New Zealanders are nice people, genuinely nice; friendly, helpful and polite. Canadians are just outwardly polite, but they couldn't give a tinker's cuss about you really.

Flower baskets adorn many of Nelson's streets.

Nelson welcomed us with brilliant sunshine. We checked into the Quest Apartments, and put on a load of washing, I know, so mundane, and went for a wander. We are near the centre of town, just away from the coast. There are cafés and restaurants everywhere, (and street art) yet it has that Christchurch feel that nothing will ever be crowded. Like the dumpling place we went to for dinner, but that could be for other reasons.

While stocking up on provisions at the local bottle shop, we engaged the lady behind the counter in the usual conversation about local knowledge on restaurants, wineries and sites to see. Turns out she only moved here two years ago, following her son and her grandkids to Nelson. She apologised for not being able to assist us much as, in the last 24 months, she appears to have done not much else but work ... She is in fact taking a week off next week to start doing some local exploring herself. It is a common theme, "Oh, I'm from the North Island, sorry". Well ok, where are all the southerners? Bondi?

The Cathedral at the top of Trafalgar Street.

She did point out a dumpling eatery diagonally across the road from the bottle shop and praised its fare, along with a couple of other nearby restaurants. We have not had dumplings since we arrived so it seemed high time to try some. We turned up just after opening time, hoping they accepted walk-ins with no booking. A stealthy reconnoître showed we had nothing to fear since there was one trio in there, despite the sign on the wall, celebrating the service of over 800,000 dumplings to the local community!

A quick glance at the menu informed us that, whatever the food options were, bottled beer would be the drink of choice. We perused the list and selected two dumpling combos plus some spring rolls and, throwing caution to the wind, something called octopus balls. No, don't go there, be brave. Oh alright then, let's do it - it's cruel really because octopus have only one ball. True story.

Street Art on the way to the supermarket. It's a squid, not an octopus.

The beers arrived first and then the dumplings. Back home, dumplings are to be approach with guarded gusto as they are usually molten in temperature and can cause the unsuspecting diner an injury if eaten in haste. The need for discretionary assessment here was, which was colder, the beer or the dumplings? Debatable. The same discussion could followed regarding flavour.

More art. Nope. No idea.

After this disappointing start, the balls arrived and were at least heated through - but not sure if they were genuine octopus. Finally, the spring rolls were presented, looking and tasting like they had come straight from the Coles, (sorry New World) freezer cabinet. Luckily, the NZ exchange rate means that we actually paid less than $40 for dinner - regardless, it was no bargain and if this is the recommended dumpling house in NZ, the Chinese Dumpling Master in Enmore has nothing to fear! World domination cannot be far away.

And so to the night that tried to emulate the Neverending Story. We tried to watch the cricket. No, Foxtel and Kayo wouldn't let us in. We made do with bad Kiwi television, as in programs exported from the West Island and the Mother Country (did I spell that correctly?). After we finally went to sleep, next door and their friends started room hopping just before 1am. The door slamming, laughing and overly loud talking continued intermittently until after 4am. Maybe I was wrong about the Canadian comparison after all. Inconsiderate prucks.

Regardless of next door's carry on, the sun smashed into a brittle blue sky far too early. I was keen to just get up and slam our door a few times, just for fun, but my head wanted to stay on the pillow. Partly because of sleep deprivation and partly because I had acquired Jayne's lurgi. Decorum was the winner.

It being Saturday, the Nelson Markets are a thing, so off we went. In a curious twist, that would see markets boycotted at home, dogs are not allowed. WTF? Anti-vaxxers and other assorted cookers dominated the walkway into the market space, spewing all sorts of lies about the impact of the COVID vaccine. But no dogs. Dogs do more good and far less harm than the cognitively impaired conspiracy theorists. Although I look forward to engaging them in conversation tomorrow. Perhaps they are controlling the market space and that is why dogs are not permitted.

Post-markets, it was back to Macpac for more bargains. This trip has radicalised what will become my travel wardrobe. Today, 4 shirts for just over $200 AUD. Absolute bargain. Then it was time for coffee and croissant at the Swedish Bakery, a recommendation from the Lonely Planet Guide. Unusually, this time they were accurate. Good coffee and a reasonable croissant.

Back at the hotel, we dropped our purchases, slammed the door a couple of times (well, you never know) and headed for the Moutere Hills. More specifically, the Moutere Hills Winery. By this time my taste buds had just about deserted me and while I could feel the wine and get a sense of acidity and finish, the finer points of tasting eluded me. It was a delightful setting about 30 minutes from Nelson and the restaurant, Forsters, was doing a solid trade. Jayne was impressed by what she could see being served. Maybe another time.

Statue "Dance to the Music of Time"

Back to the hotel again. The wine was stowed and we walked down to the water. Nelson is on a river and a bay and it is only 15 minutes walk from the hotel. We wondered why there were no people walking toward the water - after all, it is generally the big attraction. Not here. Spectacular in its turquoise coat the shallow bay glistens ... from a distance. There is no walkway around the edge, well there is, but the dual lane road comes in between the walker and the view.  At least that explains the lack of foot traffic toward the water.

The Maitai River, all green with envy.

On the return journey, I espied a Kathmandu store. One of the tragedies to befall us on this excursion has been the disappearance of Jayne's Kathmandu walking sandals (jandals, whatever). Their whereabouts, like the mode of escape, remains a mystery and has captivated our attention (if not blog space) for a week or so. Here was the store that could restore the balance of life and supply a new pair of the sandals.

The under utilised bay.

Into the expansive store we walk. A shaft of light is shining on the rack of ladies shoes down the back of the store. Heraldic music plays as we are drawn to the light. There, on the wall, Jayne's sandals. After hunting up a staff member, Jayne sits to try on the sandals. The light is getting brighter, the music louder and then, black clouds. "Sorry. We don't have your size".

Disappointment. It was time for beer and food. Hawker House in Trafalgar Street, up near the Cathedral. It was a beautiful afternoon to sit outside and sample their ale and Asian fusion food. Well worth a visit. The beer was revitalising and the food, the best I've had for a week or so - and far cheaper than we'd paid at other places.

Arty shot of the Cathedral. Or, is this how people see religion?

My state of health has surely impaired my usually incisive brain function - the conversation on the walk home involved Jayne pointing out the connection between the name of the main street "Trafalgar" with the name of the town, "Nelson" -  an unexpected revelation to me! With my spirit still flagging, even after three beers, we retired to the hotel for me to take a siesta. Most civilised behaviour.

With the blog complete, we can relax into the evening and prepare for tomorrow's adventure.

Until next time.