Many years ago, back in the 70’s, I remember thinking that on every campsite there was some twat who thought they knew how to play a guitar and who was determined to prove conclusively that they couldn’t. Fortunately, that campsite-guitar-playing fashion seemed to die out. Well, to quote the old airline gag:
Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to land in New Zealand, please set your watches back 40 years.
He’s here, the 70’s twat with the guitar. He has not learned how to play it in the intervening 40 years. OMG!
The weather gods had not been gracious overnight by brightening conditions for Francine’s bucket list Moeraki Boulders. This morning there was absolutely no light worth speaking of at all; in fact, the light was as flat as I can every remember seeing light, if light it could be called. It soon began mizzling. Francine and her tripod gamely went and played with them, nonetheless, though tourist hoards added to her difficulties by wandering in and out of her long exposures. Consequently, Francine presents, The Ghost of Moeraki.
All was not lost, even though the results were not as originally planned or imagined. Nonetheless, in the drifting drizzle under the grey sky, Francine’s doggedness paid off with an atmospheric shot or two in the end. Wellington boots help: stand in the water so no other tourists can get in front of you.
Leaving the tourist infested boulders, we drove 40-ish miles south to Dunedin, just because it was there, a few miles away and might just be brighter. It was slightly brighter. We found a 120-minute parking spot for Busby and took to Shanks’s pony. It’s a city [yawn]. What’s more, it supposedly is quite Scottish [double yawn]. In the benefits column, there was a Westpac cash machine which doesn’t charge for a cash withdrawal (ANZ bank in Te Anau had tried to charge me) so I consoled myself with a cash withdrawal before sitting outside in the slightly brighter with a beer before heading back via the supermarket.
We made a 5-minute side trip to Shag Point to see another misnomer of a Fur Seal colony [sea lions, of course]. There’s only so much interest that a handful of motionless grey seal(ion)s basking on similarly coloured grey rocks can provide, even to a wildlife enthusiast.
‘T was still grey when we arrived back but conditions have lighted a little since, except for the twat with that bloody guitar, of course.
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