No, that is not a sexual reference. Since the campsite was one of the more pleasant we have found and since the sun was out and time was not pressing, we spent a lazy day in Geraldine.

After a coffee in town, a visit to the local information centre produced a so-called riverside walk. Once found, most of the walk was not actually beside teh river but it did follow its course. At a couple of places we found the usual two damselflies, Common Redcoats and Blue Damselflies.

A visit to the local butcher reminded us of a cut of lamb that is unheard of in the UK – lamb backstrap. We’d first been introduced to this cut chez la frère de Francine, whilst on the Australian leg of our tripathon. After buying a piece big enough for two, I plucked up courage to ask the butcher to explain the cut, since we Brits don’t have it. It is a muscle running down the back of the animal, one either side of the spine, outside of the ribs. He explained that it was, in butchery terms, a quite wasteful cut since it ruins a good deal of the chops that would otherwise be available; hence its high price  (NZ$38.00 per kg). In cookery terms, there is no waste whatsoever and no fat. Cook it hot and fast like a steak.

The end.

Our mountain weather seemed to be collapsing this morning, whereas the weather further east looked fair, so tour director Francine decided we should leave Omarama (I think) and head for Geraldine. Our route would take us a mere 180kms through Mackenzie Country, named after a Gaelic speaking Scottish thorn-in-the-side-of-the-authorities sheep rustler. The infamous Mackenzie was imprisoned, escaped a few times and finally pardoned, presumably for bad behaviour. Good solution, guys. Crime does pay. The villain was supposedly in New Zealand for only two years; long enough to establish a lasting legacy, though.

At an early stop in Twizel [pronounced Twyz-l, not Twiz-l, remember] for supplies, we again met the pair of German travellers who had been on our walk in the Abel Tasmen National Park. Hugs and handshakes ensued before we actually got around to shopping.

After our supplies stop, we again passed the southern end of Lake Pukaki to bid farewell to Mount Cook, its head once again shrouded in clouds. Today’s scene looked a little less impressive than yesterday’s but New Zealand’s scenery sort of redefines impressive giving itself a hard act to follow. It was worth a pause and another click, though.

Our route continued past another of the several lakes, Lake Tekapo, which is overlooked by another tourist hotspot, the diminutive Church of the Good Shepherd. The church, with hardly enough room to swing a kiwi, stands at the southern end of the lake on a rocky mound and is itself overlooked by hundreds of grockels. The church has an end window providing photogenic views up the lake which, of course, everyone wanted to record on film/pixels. From a a little lower and to the side, and with the correct number (3) of strategically placed foreground rocks, this is roughly what the view would look like.

“But what’s the church look like?”, I hear you ask.

I’m getting there. More recently a ban has been imposed on photography from within the church. This results in the hundreds of tourists standing just outside the church door, trying to record the iconic view by shooting through the church to the window at the far end [not very far at all, really], presumably timing their shots to avoid the circling kiwi within. [Bump! See, I told you there wasn’t enough room.] Here’s Francine trialling a line up on the church of the head-battered kiwi, a line up which she finally rejected muttering, “it really isn’t worth it”, even though there was a cluster of those blasted lupins, too.

The rest of our drive was unremarkable. Maybe the most remarkable thing was that we didn’t drive by any publically accessible suitable dragonfly habitat. We arrived in Geraldine, topped up with fuel and checked into another Top 10 campsite with a grass pitch of reasonable proportions [reasonable for New Zealand, that is].

Our German friends have ended up on the same campsite. Another German traveller, this one a cyclist [Bravo!!], gratefully accepted a cold beer from Busby’s fridge. The five of us spent a pleasant early evening engaged in a bilingual beer and wine swilling party on the picnic bench positioned beside Busby. [Hic!]

The road heading north out of Omarama (I think) leads through Twizel [pronounced Twyz-l, not Twiz-l] to the southern end of Lake Pukaki. From there, zoom up the western edge of Lake Pukaki and you come to a dead end at the foot of Mount Cook, New Zealand’s highest mountain at 3754m/12200ft. It’s a biggie. With a sunny morning, that’s where we decided to head.

We didn’t get far before stopping. A road bridge just outside of Omarama (I think) crossed a river lined with plagues of lupins. Francine broke out the camera yet again. I plugged up my nose against the rather cloying scent. I’m thoroughly lupined out now, or that’s my lupinion. They are a colourful spectacle, though, in a weedy sort of way. The area was also a freedom camping area which looked reasonable if we could ever pluck up the courage to try it. Not sure I could take the scent of the lupins for a whole night, though; it’s be like sleeping in the perfume section of a department store. They all smell the same, don’t they? “Lupin, by Givenchy”.

Next stop was in Twizel at “Poppies world famous café”. I always wonder how such places get to be world famous, if, indeed, they are. A self proclamation, perhaps. Being a sunny Sunday, lots of folks were sitting out in the sun eating a world famous breakfast/brunch. World famous Eggs Benedict seemed to be the popular choice and it did look good. I’d had toast and Vegemite already but I was quite envious. The world famous coffee was good, though.

Outside the not so famous 4-Square supermarket I managed to step in some melting tar – surely it wasn’t that hot – and walked it inside Busby, whose floor latched onto it with great aplomb. “Bother!”, said Pooh, crossly. In the absence of any bona fide tar remover at the local garage, I bought a large bottle of methylated spirits to try. “If it doesn’t work, you can always drink it”, remarked the witty petrol station attendant. I asked if they sold lime juice, too. Regrettably not. It sort of worked but only sort of. Maybe methylated spirits would be OK with tonic and a slice of lemon? This might rival Douglas Adams’s pangalactic gargleblaster.

We had lunch staring up Lake Pukaki towards Mount Cook, whose summit appeared cloaked in cloud, whichever of the candidate peaks it was. A family of Orientals impacted on the otherwise rural serenity with one of those intensely irritating drone contrivances. In NZ’s favour, we’ve seen several areas signed as drone-free zones. Excellent! I’m thinking of marketing an small radio-controlled anti-aircraft gun to shoot the blasted things down. Alternatively, perhaps I could borrow the Santa-slaying [sleighing – get it?] artillery piece from Oamaru (I think).

I kind of expect roads in mountain areas to be tortuous and slow. Not here; we zoomed up beside Lake Pukaki on what would pass for a major road almost anywhere [not in the States, of course – just two lanes, one in either direction]. Doing the national speed limit of 100kph was not a problem, though that would’ve missed some of the beautiful scenery.

As we neared Mount Cook, we saw that the clouds that had appeared to be shrouding it  were actually in front of it and that the peak itself was actually largely clear. It’s a good looking mountain with a suitably sharp summit. Mountains should look like the Matterhorn. Ben Nevis in Scotland is only one-third the size and boringly rounded on top.

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.

Today we left Queenstown to head east across country to Moeraki. Where? Moeraki as in the Moeraki Boulders. The Moeraki Boulders are large, marble-like lumps of rock on a beach, much beloved of landscape photographers and are one of Francine’s bucket list items.

We left the mountains behind in brilliant sunshine and headed into the centre of South Island. The sky remained clear blue and, as the day progressed, the temperature rose accordingly, hitting 27°C at its height.

En route, we spotted three different places that looked as if they might be candidates for odonata, and so they proved, though one site produced only a single species, the good ol’ Common Redcoat. Still, it was good to be having some opportunity to spot things again after several days of abstinence. My research before departing had shown that New Zealand has a paucity of dragonflies and damselflies – just 17 species in all but really 15 if the rare migrants/vagrants are removed. I have now begun to suspect that one problem is that it also has a paucity of suitable habitat. There are a lot of cold, fast flowing mountain streams but they ain’t any good. Calmer, still, warm fresh water seems scarce. We do pass what look like good ponds every now and then but most are behind fences on private land, being rather like what the Australians call dams on farm properties.

In the centre the land was unspectacular but very pleasantly rural, much more me than would be, say, a city. If there were ever to be a new Zealand campsite that was designed to relax in, this would be an environment in which it would be worth relaxing. There isn’t, of course, but it’s a nice thought: pasture, cows, sheep, no traffic to speak of, sparsely populated except for the occasional homely, single street towns … [Sigh]

As we made our way through another range of hills towards the east coast, the horizon began to appear as an ominous grey mass. As we drew closer we began to descend towards the coastal plain and our sun disappeared behind the grey overcast. Busby’s temperature read out fell from 27°C to 14.5°C in about 10 minutes. Bugger!

I suspect that what we were now experiencing was equivalent to summer in San Francisco. Was it mark Twain (it usually is) who famously said, “the coldest winter I ever experienced was summer in San Francisco”? Here’s the way it works: Very hot air from California’s central valley, crosses the coastal mountain range, descends and bumps into cold air coming in off the Pacific Ocean. Result, fog. Under the fog, the temperature plummets. We’d just left hot air over the higher central ground, crossed some hills and descended towards the east coast of New Zealand. Well, it’s a theory. That could be complete bollocks, of course – probably just cloud. 🙂

Poor Francine, she’d been so looking forward to photographing her Moeraki Boulders with either good sunsets or good sunrises, or both, and the weather was socked in and as flat, grey and lifeless as we can ever remember seeing it. Bugger again! Still, we have two nights here so conditions may improve.

We did go and look, though. The boulders are not as large as I imagined. I was personally left distinctly underwhelmed. I blame the low angles and wide angle lenses. I felt very sorry for Francine, though.

We are spending two nights in our sardine can of a campsite near Queenstown. Francine was interested to see Arrowtown, another old gold mining town which is only about 20kms away. In fact, it used to be where the Top 10 sardine packing factory campsite used to be before the current location took over. Arriving relatively early we found a parking space big enough for Busby and wandered in search of coffee. Joy, we found a real Italian café selling cannoli to go with our coffee. The cannoli were divine. As with most gold mining areas, the town looked bit wild west, except for the cars, of course.

At Arrowtown there were walks along the river, a river which was once again lined with lupins though not the broad swathes of the approach to Milford Sound. I hadn’t realized prior to New Zealand that lupins had such a cloying, rather sickly smell but then, I hadn’t ever been in such close proximity to so many before. Frankly, I was beginning to tire of lupins.

We walked along one side of the wooded banks of the river and, as we did so, the lupins began to fade out. We thought that this woodland looked rather British. Birds were plentiful. Astonishing though it is, they made me think.

Entering New Zealand, one passes through or into what I think is termed a Biological Control Zone. It seems a great idea; we could do with some more biological control over things entering the UK and parts of Europe given some of our more recent biological problems. However, where New Zealand is concerned it does seem rather like shutting the stable door after the proverbial horse has disappeared over the distant, picturesque hills. Prior to our visit, we knew that possums have been causing devastation to the native wildlife. What we unaware of was that the imported animal causing doing most damage and most concern is actually the stoat. I now know that the kill traps we had seen on several of our woodland walks were targeting stoats. I thought the entrance hole looked a bit bijou for a possum but now I understand. Rats are also a big issue.

Back to the birds. What do you think is the most numerous bird in New Zealand? Answer: the European Blackbird. That shocked me. Blackbirds are seen hoping everywhere and are heard singing their little hearts out all over the place. Other familiar European feathered friends that have been introduced and taken over include the House Sparrow, Song Thrush, Starling, Chaffinch, Goldfinch, Dunnock (a.k.a. Hedge Sparrow), Yellowhammer, Skylark. We have seen a handful of smaller native birds – one Tomtit and a few of Silvereyes – but they are heavily outnumbered by the imports.

I’m sure worse could be introduced – anthrax or the red weevil that is destroying Spain’s palm trees –  but New Zealand’s native ecosystem was completely f***ed up about 150 years ago. That horse is long gone.

We got a new power cable from Maui before sticking our nose into Queenstown, then rapidly sticking it back out again – far too many people.

After early morning on board the Milford Mariner, we disembarked to retrieve Busby from his overnight car park. (Actually, it was a coach park so his personal space was accordingly larger.) We headed back along the road towards first, Te Anau, and then Queenstown.

The morning was clear and sunny which made the touristy attractions en route more appealing than they had been under the grey skies of our inbound journey. The only stop we made, though, was at Francine’s swathe of lupins to see what some sun might do to their array of colours.

We filled up with fuel again at the cheap unmanned station in Mossburn and took the opportunity to top up our caffeine levels, too.

Our secondary [backup] satnav cable had failed completely two days ago heading towards Milford Sound so now we made another visit to the Maui base on our way into Queenstown. Fortunately, it still failed when the staffer plugged it in so we were issued with a replacement and yet another spare, “just in case”. The new cable got us to our campsite with no glitches.

We checked in, drove to our so-called pitch and plugged in to the mains. No power. I tried another connection point. Same story – no power. Our mains connection cable had failed again.  [Sigh, or utterances to that effect.] Once again I undid the van-side connector and jiggled with the cable, ramming it home more securely before retightening the connector. Relief, we had power but we’ll need yet another visit to Maui on the morrow.

More fun was to come. Quite close to our gravel parking space was a small shack with two toilets and two showers. It looked basic outside but was actually well appointed within. Franco needed to avail himself of the toilet and entered. I locked the door. There were actually two locks on the door, one integral to the handle and the other mounted above the handle. I threw both locks.

Nature having been attended to, I undid the separate lock before attacking the integral lock. You can sense what’s coming next, can’t you? Would the integral lock turn? No, of course not. I tried again, this time attempting to turn it in both directions because I couldn’t really remember which direction had engaged it. No movement in either direction. [Ed: well, you’d had your movement by then :D] I tried pulling the door towards me before again trying to undo the lock; still no joy.

This was far too much like a scene from Carry on Camping. Sid James was locked in a toilet that refused steadfastly to release him. I actually considered trying to climb out of the window but it was seven feet up and, from the toilet seat on which I would have had to stand, there was a stretch of about three feet. Apart from also doubting my 64-year-old agility – a man’s gotta know his limitations – I’d have had to exit head first through an 18-inch/0.5m gap to fall inelegantly onto the four waste and recycling wheelie bins positioned five feet beneath the window on the outside.

Barbara Windsor (a.k.a. Francine) had now heard the commotion caused by Sid in the loo and turned up to lend assistance. Sid explained through the now-fully-open-though-perhaps-not-open-quite-enough seven feet high window, that Barbara’s tits were very nice but that he was stuck in the loo. After suggesting a few things that I’d already tried and/or discounted, such as clambering out of the seven feet high window, Barbara wiggled her way off to see the site staff and summon assistance.

Sid sat back on the loo seat for a few minutes to wait during which time Charles Hawtry, another camper, had seen and heard the interaction between Barbara and Sid, in his multiple failed attempts to escape. He tried to help. I saw arms through the obscured glass fiddling with the outside of the locks and door but again to no avail.

Enter Kenneth Williams, the site manager: “Ooooh, ‘allo, I don’t like the look of this!”

I didn’t much like the look of it either. Kenneth got me to explain that I understood how locks worked, that there were indeed two locks, one of which I had undone successfully, but that the second integral lock refused to budge. More shoving and rattling of the door and its locks ensued as the cast of Carry on Glamping continued to assemble.

Eventually and for completely unknown reasons, with a mixture of Kenneth Williams pushing and working the outside of the door while Sid James pulled and worked the inside of the door, the problematic integral lock at last swung into action. Sid was out in the fresh air and reunited with Barbara and her impressive chest.

Roll credits.

Glamping? I know I’ve been here before but check out the crowding and pitch quality on this Queenstown Top 10 campsite. Only pictures can convey what will almost certainly be my most undying memory from New Zealand. I’ve seen it with my own eyes but still cannot believe it. For this you pay NZ$50 [~£28 depending on current exchange rates] per couple per night. I’ve never paid £28 for a campsite in my life. The facilities on the campsites are excellent – they need to be ‘cos you can’t really do much on the pitch – but the pitches themselves suck.

I felt most concern for the couples in what are little more than converted cars, pitched on very limited gravel, with no space in the car, save the driver and passenger seats, and no space outside the car. Sure, you can sleep there but that’s all.

Our Milford Sound overnight cruise was one from Francine’s bucket list. She’d booked it back in February. At 16:00, our check-in time, the nice folks opened up the bus parking area (the buses now had departed) for overnighters car parking. Francine checked in and got our boarding passes while I abandoned poor old Busby for his night alone.

We were on the Milford Mariner, the bigger of two boats sleeping 60, and we did have our double en suite cabin. It seems that sometimes people end up on the smaller Milford Wanderer, sleeping about 36, and may end up sharing facilities. This was reported by a friend of ours thus we are not quite clear on the precise arrangements, so beware. It worked as advertised for us. The cabin was bijou but very comfortable.

Witty safety briefing by the captain given and the  crew introduced, engines fired up and we were on our way in perfectly blissful weather. If there was a downside to the perfectly blissful weather it was that there had been 8 or 9 days of it and the usually gushing waterfalls cascading down the vertiginous sides of the Sound were mere trickles compared to their usual volume. Nonetheless, we were both very happy to have the sun.

I haven’t seen a Norwegian Fjord but this was how I imagined they might look, near vertical mountainous sides ultimately rising to a mile above sea level. Mitre Peak, the famous one, climbs to 1692m. A modest looking waterfall that we passed was actually tumbling over 150m but it was dwarfed by the cliffs above it.

The Sound is not actually as long as I perhaps had expected, given that we were on a 17-hour overnight cruise; it is only really about 15kms before the mouth opens out into the Tasman Sea. The form was that we’d cruise for nearly an hour, then moor in a sheltered bay where some water activities were offered. The Mariner carries two tenders with outboard motors, together with a squadron of sea kayaks. Francine and I were happy to remain on board enjoying a beer and views from the top deck as most of our fellow passengers took to the water. I was actually hoping that a whale that the crew had glimpsed on our way out would catch us up but no such luck.

Kayaks and tenders recovered, the captain weighed anchor and took us out into the swell of the Tasman Sea. Turning across the swell caused some fun as a table full of drinks was upset by the sudden bounce of vessel. Dinner was at 19:00. I hung on to our ice bucket suitably tightly. Food was buffet style, very good (French chef), varied and plentiful. It was billed as three courses but we could’ve done with four since the mains were a mixture of salads, seafood and roast meats, a mixture of which made strange plate-fellows. They did invite us up for a second plate of the mains. Francine kept hopping up, with due apologies to our fellow diners, to take pictures as we cruised through meal time, which was not ideally suited to her chosen leisure activity.

Another sheltered haven was found in which to moor the vessel overnight, together with the companion vessel, the Wanderer. The sun sank lower, darkness grew, more stars appeared and the Southern Cross became visible just above the mountain tops. We’d made some Aussie friends at dinner who pointed it out to us. It was upside down compared the the two national flags. Odd. After counting satellites for a while, we hit the sack.

The evening had been good but the next morning made it, I think, for both of us. The early morning was peaceful and Francine enjoyed the light.

As the morning progressed and breakfast finished, much to my apprehension not being the world’s greatest mariner, we headed back out through the mouth of the Sound into the Tasman Sea again. Apprehension soon disappeared as the crew spotted three Humpback Whales nearby. I rode the waves wedged up against the handrail as we made for them. [Yeah, right!] Normally, whale-watching photos of dolphins and whales show a dorsal fin breaking the surface together with a short length of back breaking the surface – good to prove you’ve seen them but otherwise rather dull. These whales moved around our boat for about 15 minutes with rare, fleeting appearances of their tail flukes. Finally, I managed to catch a tail fluke on pixels. It’s not the classic shot, that would have water dripping of it, but it is a tail fluke. I was happy.

On the way back in to disembark, the Mariner took us to within touching distance of one of the permanent waterfalls, now reduced by the dry weather but impressive nonetheless. Francine was in her element playing with it.

One of those obscenely large cruise liners had been dropping off supplies to the Milford Sound settlement – not enough room to moor up – and was on its way back out to sea. Apart from the atmospheric light, it does tend to add a sense of scale to the Sound, I think.

It was another stunning morning but all good things come to and end. We disembarked at 09:15 and retrieved Busby. Francine declared herself to be delighted with the experience.

And so we approach the main event. Francine booked our overnight cruise aboard the Milford Mariner on Milford Sound way back in February; some dates were full even then. The cruise was tonight. Today we made our way from Te Anau to the Milford Sound “settlement”. Unfortunately, following yesterday’s beautiful blue skies, this morning had dawned grey and overcast with low clouds shrouding the hills/mountains surrounding Lake Te Anau.

There is but one road into and out of Milford Sound so our return journey tomorrow morning would necessarily retrace our inbound steps. It’s as journey of 120kms (allow 2 hours) so leaving at 10:30 and with a check-in time for our overnight cruise of 16:00, we had time to dawdle at various touristy attractions en route.

At the first of several stops, Francine tried a shot across the lake for reflections but in all honesty, the solid grey sky didn’t really do it justice.

There was better fortune at a second stop when we spotted an expansive swathe of mixed colour lupins, with a suitably situated parking place, actually part of a Department of Conservation campsite. Naturally, there were several cars already there with people taking various shots of the mass of lupins. The good thing was that the parking area was inaccessible to the swarms of tour buses which leave from Queenstown every morning on day trips. Francine is fond of saying that she doesn’t want harsh shadows for flower photography. She certainly had no shadows of any description this morning.

The first part of the road to Milford Sound was proving pretty easy. Our next stop was at the so-called Mirror Lakes. This time we did run into tour buses – seven of them, most of which seemed to be loaded with Orientals armed with their selfie sticks and assorted cameras. Orientals appear to be  a strange breed – well, several breeds – in that they don’t tend to take pictures of just scenery, they really want themselves standing in front of said scenery. Standing in front of said scenery is often accompanied by a strange Churchill-like V-sign made with both hands. I presume this has nothing to do with victory, which is what Churchill meant, but I confess to being bemused about what it might mean. Stupefying! In any event, the Mirror Lakes weren’t doing their job today in the lack of sun, not that that deterred our Oriental friends. We didn’t bother.

Still with time to burn, we were attracted by a 45-minute nature walk advertised at the southern end of Lake Gunn. This was decidedly a botanical nature walk with no critters in evidence but the woodland did look positively primordial, again, with most of the trees with smothered in mosses and lichens. So, a clean and damp environment, then. We stopped here for lunch again but could not fling open Busby’s rear doors because a sand fly scourge descended upon us. Sand flies, Francine has decided, are somewhat worse than mosquitoes because they gnaw a bare patch and leave anticoagulants to keep the blood flowing. Charming!

There was a stop at which we were supposed to be able to see a Kea. Keas are a New Zealand native lumbering parrot which can actually fly. We did see one but it was marching along the tarmac of the parking area so it wasn’t a great photo opportunity. Had to be done, though, for the sake of completeness.

By now the 120kms journey was beginning to be feeling arduous due to all the stopping. I was relieved to make our last stop in the queue to get through the 1.2-kilometre tunnel just before the descent towards Milford Sound itself. Like most of the road bridges in New Zealand, the tunnel is a single lane so is traffic light controlled. The wait can to proceed can be up to 5 minutes. I was even more relieved when, on exiting the tunnel, we did so into brighter weather with the clouds breaking and allowing sun to shine through. Perhaps our Milford Sound cruise would be brighter than we had been led to believe.

We parked and killed an hour before check-in time by staring at the imposing scenery of the landward end of the Sound.

Busby was going to be spending a night alone in a car park. Mind you, most car parks are at least as good as many of the New Zealand campsites, short of an electric hook-up, of course.

Our Wanaka Top 10 campsite left a little to be desired – all soap dispensers in the washrooms empty, for example – but it was quite well situated as we left to visit the shores of Lake Wanaka itself. We pulled into the first off road parking area to be faced by bunches of lupins, all be they yellow [fussy chaps, photographers], fronting the shore. As I parked Busby, Francine headed for the lake front.

There are a few classic subjects that landscape photographs love and one of those is a lone tree with its feet in water. There is a famous example of this type in the English Lake District on Lake Buttermere. A friend of ours has found another, even better example, in the Snowdonia National Park of Wales. Purely by chance we had stumbled into the iconic New Zealand example of its type. And what a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. I snapped a few while Francine gave the surrounding waters her Lee Big Stopper treatment. [The naturally imposed blue cast means that they’ll take some processing before being ready for display, though.]

We were heading for Te Anau, well beyond Queenstown on the one road in and out of Milford Sound. Being one of the tourist hotspots, we’d booked a spot in the campsite to be safe.

Leaving Wanaka behind we headed through very pleasant, if unspectacular countryside – the trouble is that parts of New Zealand sort of redefine spectacular and expectations get adjusted accordingly – towards a famous historic hotel at Cardrona. A spit before Cardrona is what has become a possibly more famous sight. I parked but Busby’s key fob failed to lock the doors a few times before I managed to get it to work. Worrying.

Years ago a tourist with a bizarre sense of amusement clearly thought it would be a jolly wheeze to leave her bra tied to a wire fence. Humans being little more intelligent, on the whole, than sheep, first dozens then hundreds followed suit. The fence is now covered with bras and has become known as Bradronda. Bizarre it may be but at least it has been turned to good use by having been given a collection box for donations towards breast cancer.

Busby unlocked but I again had trouble locking him at the hotel where we stopped for a cup of coffee. Now I was certain I needed to call into the Maui office in Queenstown.

The drive to Queenstown twisted and climbed its way through a landscape that looked a little more like desert, similar to the Desert Road on North Island in some respects. Clearly it isn’t desert, though, since there are chain bays spaced regularly along the road. The descent into Queenstown rounded several sharp hairpin bends which stop the wary driver looking at the scenery. The occasional glimpse proved it was a impressive, though.

We found the Queenstown Maui centre, had the power cable checked and the battery in the key fob renewed. We swapped our also temperamental Kiwi Satnav which occasionally failed to run on vehicle power. Poor electrical connections seemed to have been a feature, though not terminal problems. Our package also includes a change of bed linen and towels, which Francine collected.

We were both expecting the road between Queenstown and Te Anau to be somewhat slow and arduous but in fact it proved to be relatively straight and fast. At least our journey back this way should be relaxing. At Kingston we had lunch and I had something of an epiphany, reversing Busby towards a lake shore and throwing open the rear doors to give us a lunch view. It’s taken two weeks but maybe I’m getting the hang of this campervan lark. 🙂

Fuel prices had still been high in Queenstown (NZ$1.56) and I was expecting them to be high in Te Anau, being a centre for trapped Milford Sound tourists, so I was mighty surprised to find an unmanned automated fuel station in Mossburn selling diesel at NZ$1.26. Had I taken a wrong turn and ended up back on North Island? I’ll have some of that. I should be able to have some more of it on the way back from Milford Sound, too.

Another word about diesel in passing. In New Zealand, diesel fuel is untaxed at the point of sale so is considerably cheaper than unleaded fuel. However, diesel is taxed after the event – there’s a charge based on mileage [does one ever say kilometerage?] which I think it’s called a Diesel Recovery Charge, or some such. Our package includes a flat rate charge for that so we don’t have to worry.

Te Anau looked very pleasant and, after our newly checked short electric cable failed to reach at our first pitch, we were rewarded with the best pitch on site, right at the edge and facing the fence, unsociable gits that we are.