Since these latter blog posts are retrospective, and share with you what happened some time ago, I am afraid they no longer follow chronology. The main reason for this is that I am impatient, and have things I want to talk about before others.

So skipping ahead – we named our campervan, our transport and accomodation choice for the South Island, Jaws. For no reason other than it had a giant picture of a shark on one side. Now, anyone who knows Ad and I will know why this was such a point of irony when we collected Jaws. So much so, Ad was convinced I called ahead to request the camper specifically. (For the record, I didn’t.)

Granted, Jaws was everything we needed to get us around New Zealand’s south, but he certainly was basic. Think a large people carrier style car with no back seats, but a table-come-bed instead. But we had miniature curtains to make it cosy and enough space to stretch out. We had storage for all our stuff and best of all, we could take our temporary home anywhere we wanted. We woke to a catalogue of stunning views; glaciers, mountains, lakes and waterfalls. Never has the appeal to having your life in one neat place been so apparent.

With utter simplicity (we had no electricity and often no mobile signal) came an abundance of an overlooked pleasure; books books and more books. I had the time to read with gusto, some books I read once then turned them back to the beginning and read them entirely again. I’ve only ever done this once before, my all time favourite book; The Time Travellers Wife.

During these happy Jaws days, I was lucky to come across three books that left a strong impression on me. I feel compelled to share them in order of preference.

3. Pollard by Laura Beatty

Anne is a young, arkward, apparently unappreciated teenager who decides one day to leave her family and home to take refuge in the woods, never to return.

It’s an eye opening story telling of how she learns to survive, how she connects herself to the natural world, and most poignantly, how the outside world perceives her. You grow up beside this unlikely, unconventional heroine, and understand her horror as the development around her begins to destroy her unusual but familiar life.

This frank and at times uncomfortable book was a slow starter but once into the swing of the story, it was captivating. Worth a read!

2. Never Let me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

The elusive copy on the back cover of this book pulled me in instantly. This eerily realistic and convincing account of a parallel existence is a heart wrenching, exceptionally written story of three children growing up in an English boarding school. Through a teasing game of two steps forward, one step back, Ishiguro slowly reveals the unusual and deeply troubling tale of these three young lives. This is a coming of age story, with a very dark undertone.

An incredible read. This book stll haunts me.

1. Into Thin Air : Jon Krakauer

This book had to come out on top of my top three. I don’t think a book has ever affected me in quite the same way. Not particularly fascinated by mountain climbing or exploration, the book completely knocked me sideways. Maybe because it’s real life, but also perhaps because it’s told in such an honest and beautifully scripted way.

Into Thin Air is a first hand journalistic account of the 1996 Mt Everest summit attempts in which there were a number of curious and seemingly avoidable deaths, including the experienced leaders of competing tourist expeditions.

After a life long obsession with Everest, the author is asked by Outside magazine to join a well known, commercial expedition run by experienced guides and sherpas, to report back in a short piece on how these high profile tours for top paying clients function. With what begins innocently, a terrible turn of events see one of the worst tragedies Everest has ever seen. Krakauer survives the ordeal but his emotional account tells of how he considers his movements to have had a direct consequence on the deaths of many of his team mates. He quickly produces his short piece on his return, but so shaken at the time and so altered by his experiences on the mountain, he later goes on to write Into Thin Air, a cathartic piece to ‘set the record straight’.

The author’s raw emotion is obvious throughout the book and his guilt is exposed through the narrative. The entire account, even where in parts it is lighthearted, has a disturbing sense of foreboding and exposes stark questions about the financial motives of these commercial tours and whether, in some cases, safety may have been compromised over client satisfaction.

This book is compelling and horrific. It’s real life; you get to know the author’s companions and you are there with them, climbing to the roof of the world. You can feel his physical pain and you can relate to his grief. In the end, when he eventually returns, you’ve summited Everest too, and you’ve lost friends as well.

Most significantly, you come away from reading Into Thin Air with an acute sense of Everest’s power and her mystery. I started the book largely disinterested in the world’s tallest mountain but finished the book feeling compelled to visit the Himalayas and see for myself Everest in all her unmistakable glory.

So (I’ll stop going on now) please put your preconceptions about dry mountain-climbing stories aside, and read this book. It will really open your eyes.

Well loved and highly recommended!

Yes, I do remember the city’s driving rain and the unrelenting wind, but mostly I remember the sun which, even in just a stolen moment, could reveal herself and remind you of the changing turquoise colours in the Hauraki Gulf, or the absolute blue sky against the lushness of the trees.

When the sun shines here, it’s never quite the same. It feels muted, dulled probably behind London’s smoggy haze. I do love London with all its vibrancy especially in summer, and it is comforting to be back home surrounded by familiar faces and voices, but there is a magic to New Zealand that cannot be rivalled. And on days like today, I like to look back, smile and remember.

Only four months on since leaving Auckland, and life is all at once entirely different. In London we are on the move; life bustles at an exhilarating pace, leaves you drained but happy and fulfilled. I feel a purpose, I am an accepted member of the pack and in return have all the fruits of the city to enjoy for my labour. It’s a life I am already used to, and somehow thrive on, but so often I think back to our relaxed Kiwi lifestyle and feel home-sick for the long, endless days of nothing-in-particular except whatever took our fancy.

We left Auckland in a fluster of big boxes and even bigger bags, long goodbyes and precious memories. I made lists of places I had to visit, revisit, enjoy and immortalise in my mind. It became a second full-time job, working through this catalogue of must-see’s. I am happy to say we managed almost everything, and for those places we missed, well we will just have to go back.

After handing over the key to our apartment, and leaving on an early flight to Rarotonga, the long journey home had begun. It was with bittersweet excitement we left the City of Sails and our central urban life overlooking the harbour and 24 hour coffee. We took to the skies, flew over the national date line to the Pacific Islands. We waved goodbye to smiley faces that I felt in just a year I had known all my life, and learnt to become re-accustomed to a new friend, The Road…

So, as I mentioned before, I have been trying to decide where in New Zealand’s North Island has been my favourite spot, and after lots of deliberating I have decided that the little ski town at the foot of Mt Ruapehu has my top vote. Ohakune. It took me over a month to correctly spell, and maybe two or three to pronounce. (Oh-a-koo-nee is the best I’ve come up with, and that is probably an embarrassingly ‘foreign’ attempt.)

Something draws me back to this little town time and time again. Maybe it’s the fresh alpine air that is always a few degrees cooler than anywhere else. Perhaps it is the unobstructed view of the rugged Ruapehu in the distance. It could be the small but smart selection of shops, cafes and restaurants. Or is it something else undefined that just hangs in the air and makes you happy to be there.

This tiny, chilly town is also my most visited place in the North Island, after Auckland, which really must confirm my decision for top spot. And I fully intend to go back again before our time with New Zealand is out.

My first visit was in February when the Overlander train from Wellington to Auckland stopped for lunch. The tiny but adorable cafe in the railway station was cosy and inviting, and so unlike any station cafe in England (Pumpkin Cafe it was not) we didn’t need to go any further. On the second visit in April when we intended to do the Tongariro Crossing (but was cancelled due to bad weather…) we stayed in the beautiful Powderhorn Chateau. I didn’t even realise we were back in the same town until we noticed the same train station at the end of the street. We loved everything about our two nights here. So much so we have taken every visitor back there since.

Staying at the Powderhorn is a unique experience in itself; a warm and welcoming pine chalet with roaring open fires and shaggy rugs. The suites have wooden, heated dryer-rooms for your wet outdoor gear. There are rugs, blankets, leather arm chairs and wooden chests. Best of all, there are huge mugs to make your morning coffee in. There are two friendly ginger cats that trot behind you around the hotel. The downstairs bar serves steaming bowls of soup with crusty bread and mulled wine around the fire, any time of day. The dinner menu offers up a range of gastro-euro food with an individual twist. I loved a skeptical order I made of venison with kumara gnocci, and chocolate wine jus (and honestly, it was more delicious than you can imagine) I reordered the exact same meal the second evening. Oh, and their home made foccacia topped with caramelised onions is just to die for.

When I find a rare spot like this all I want to do is sit there all day, reading the paper and drinking mugs of marshmellow hot chocolate. And there is a certain smell there; a muddle of pine, a wintery spice like cinamon or chai mixed something heady and floral. You smell it everywhere, and it’s addictive.

Ohakune’s appeal is not limited to just the Powderhorn, mind you. On the following two visits we stayed in other places and I loved being there just as much. When you step out the car from a long drive, you fill your lungs with that fresh air and feel like you’re coming back to life. We eventually managed to do the famous Tongariro Crossing which, despite what I might have said at the time, was worth all the sweat and tears. We climbed grueling volcanic faces, skidded down the other side and climbed back over again. We ate lunch next to bright blue and emerald sulphuric lakes and with a day so clear we could see the isolated cone of Mt Taranaki miles away on the west coast.

So, in my opinion, a visit to the central North Island is not complete without a visit to National Park and the tiny town of Ohakune. The town is a gaggle in the middle of winter, filled with skiers and boarders visiting Mt Ruapehu. In summer the town sees a more modest, and less raucous handful of trampers and outdoor enthusiasts. If you do visit, then please stop at the Powderhorn, at least for lunch or dinner if not for the night. I promise, you’ll be back.

Oh, and top it all off, Ohakune is famous for growing carrots, apparently. And who doesn’t like a carrot?

This time in two weeks I am going to be relaxing on this tropical, sunny, beautiful island with uninterrupted views from my beach hut of turquoise ocean and white sand. I plan to sip rum cocktails from coconut shells while basking in the sun, swinging from my hammock, reading a book…

Then I saw this.

Pardon me, what do you mean monsoon season?

Epic beach holiday FAIL.

And speaking of wet weather, yesterday tropical cyclone Zelia passed us by. Thankfully she didn’t linger. In the entire time I’ve lived here I’ve never heard the balcony doors groan, rattle and creak like that. It bordered on being just a little bit scary from the 24th floor (obviously my previous declaration of love for storms was being tested.) I did try to venture out to the balcony once, but just opening the doors forced such strong gales through the apartment, I gave up. The low cloud was so dense all I could see out the glass was the balcony railing and then a white, shifting curtain. Impressive and intimidating at the same time. It was the kind of aggressive weather that made you want to literally batten down the hatches and stay cosy. So I did exactly that – one of the benefits of unemployment I suppose.

So, we’ve been here in New Zealand for eleven months, and in this time we’ve managed to see the majority of the north island, minus a few far flung corners. This pretty, green country holds so many wonders it is hard to narrow down the best bits, but for me there was some clear highlights. One of my favorites is Lake Taupo.

We’ve passed through Taupo on almost every trip we’ve taken south. Not always intentionally either, it does have a central location that makes it an attractive via point. The thing that stands out to me about Taupo, both the lake and the town, is its versatility to impress in any season. In misty or overcast weather the lake looks challenging, oppressive and dramatic. On a sunny, warm day you can literally see welcoming, clear water for miles.

Lake Taupo, incidentally, is a very large lake. Its size is 616 square kilometres and covers similar land mass to Singapore. That’s big. The town of Taupo is comparatively small, with a population of about 22,000, only a few main streets but a fabulous waterfront outlook with the majestic mountains of the National Park rising up behind the water. Catch Taupo on a clear day, and it is truly postcard-picture stunning. A memory that sticks in my mind is visiting in October, driving down the road past Huka Falls and seeing the first glimpse of the water. The white of the mountains was reflected in the lake and the snow contrasted beautifully with the blue sky. I also remember eating – this is me – a Burgerfuel Beetnik (for those unfamiliar, this is a vegetarian burger of mushroom, kumara, chickpea and basil with beetroot, cheese and other delights; yes absolute YUM) sitting with a view overlooking the lake, and I swear to this day it was the most amazing tasting meal I have ever had. I’ve had average to good Beetniks since, but none seem to compare to the one in Taupo and I am almost certain it was the view that made it taste all the better.

Another hidden gem of Taupo is the L’Arte Cafe. Tucked away down a rural back street, this pretty little courtyard cafe with it’s own mosaic garden and unique displays of homemade sculpture is really worth a visit. What it lacks in lakeside views it makes up for in individuality. The setting is brightly coloured and quirky. Most importantly the food is top notch. We have visited this little cafe on two of our four trips through Taupo and the fresh, home-made food has impressed us both times. I urge anyone visiting the Taupo area to take a short detour here.

Well, the rain in Auckland seems to have passed for now. From where I sit I am looking out over a very clear, brightly lit skyline and the nocturnal buzz from the city can be heard, albeit muffled and indistinct, through my closed balcony doors. It is past 1am and unlike the people downstairs, time for me to sleep. Goodnight New Zealand, good afternoon England.

Me – ‘Fancy meeting for a drink in The Jericho Tavern on Friday after work?’
Friend – ‘Ha ha! No, we don’t go there anymore, that was SO 2009. Its changed its name and it’s full of weirdos now…’

?

Hm. Perhaps I should do some research.

Anyway, having been away for over a year now, I spent some time thinking back to where I was last year and what I was doing. This time in 2010 we were in Melbourne and we’d just finished our hectic stint travelling down the coast through Queensland and NSW. It was a silly, happy, funny time. We laughed, we drank, we danced. Most memorably, it was sunny, bright and pretty place to be.

How different the picture looks this year. I can hardly drag my eyes away from the tv, watching the news, seeing the death toll creeping up. Seeing the familiar places we’d visited so recently now looking like post-apocalyptic war zones. Its terrible to hear of natural disasters happening anywhere in the world, most recently the horrific floods in Brazil which sound like nothing I can even imagine, but its all the more poignant when you recognize the towns and the streets. If it had happened last year our experience would have been very different indeed…

Similarly, I’d only returned from Thailand a matter of months (and some people I knew, only days) before the Boxing Day Tsunami, 2004. It was the same feeling; I knew those beaches, I remembered the people who worked there, whose lives would have been ruined. Revisiting Koh Phi Phi for the first time in December 2009 hit home to me. Charlie’s, where we stayed, was still gone. A pile of rubble still stood in its place. The whole island felt different, polluted, damaged. It’s not something you’d notice if you’d never been before but I could feel it as soon as we got off the boat.

I know natural disasters are a part of life and they happen all over the world. These places do pick themselves up and they do recover. But so far I can’t rub out the images of Australia I’ve seen on TV recently that look worse than a horror movie. My thoughts go out to all those who have lost or missing friends and family.

The sun is shining over Auckland today and the sea looks beautiful. But last night a heavy storm came in and I sat on the balcony and watched the mist and rain roll in over the lights of the North Shore. The downpour was obscuring the usual view of the boats and even some of the buildings at closer range. My view was shadowy and distorted, almost eerie against the glow from the street lamps. I thought right then, this is what I will miss. Sitting here, watching a storm approach and break overhead. The weather making the ground look even further away by concealing the pavements and roads. I have always loved watching storms. As a child I would climb onto my windowsill and draw the curtains behind me, just to have a perfect, uninterrupted view.  To think that now I can sit and watch them roll in off the sea from miles away, well I am very lucky indeed…

So my last few weeks dance infront of me, and my mind is a buzz of things to do, people to see, places to go, don’t waste time, don’t miss anything out. The humdrum from Christmas and New Year is winding down in Auckland. Fairy lights are gradually being taken down, shops are returning to normal, business is as usual. But for me, life feels very unusual now with a big ticking clock hanging over my head.

But here we are, 2011 already, and all that is left is to squeeze every last drop out of Auckland life between now and the end of January.

I was skeptical, how can any workout be anything like a party? Maybe a really bad party, the kind that has you checking your watch every 5 minutes and wondering when someone else will just ruddy-well go home, so you don’t have to be the first to leave.

Well, I thought I better give it a try and find out what all the hype is about.

And, you know what, it really is actual f-u-n. (In a slightly sweaty, red faced, unattractive way)

So, here I am a few months later, it would seem I have well and truly been bitten by the zumba-bug. And not content with just taking part, I had to go a step further… In a moment of fleeting madness I’ve registered to become a Zumba INSTRUCTOR.

What! I know, I know. This is definitely a bit out-there for me, and unlike anything I have ever done before, but hey ho. It might be a bit of a laugh, eh.

So, if anyone out there wants a ‘Zumba body’, come back to me at the end of Oct. I will see what I can do…

I absolutely love flying into England over London, seeing the Thames weaving in and out of the familiar, iconic buildings in minature and watching the map growing bigger and closer until you can see those finer details, then finally touching the ground. That is, of course, if you aren’t exhausted from a 36-hour-with-two-stop-overs flight, drifting in and out of confused sleep with your mouth ungracefully wide open and trying not to let your head land on the shoulder of the stranger next to you. As I touched down at Heathrow on the 22nd of July I am ashamed to admit my description sat firmly in this category. I woke up with a start as we bumped down, and felt a fleeting sense of disappointment. Blast! I had missed that beautiful view, and I had really, really wanted to watch the end of Remember Me…

Never mind. Time to focus on the better things. I was Home! In a few short mintutes I would be marching through the airport, waiting for my luggage and then pushing my trolly beneath the NOTHING TO DECLARE sign. I am sure one of my first travelling memories is walking under this intimidating sign, or NADA DECLARAR to be specific. I really hated it. (almost as much as the steps over the railway line in Warlingham with the massive gaps. Those steps often featured in my earliest nightmares.) I was convinced the scary Spanish airport police with their dogs and the guns – I am sure they used to carry guns – would stop us and check our luggage for offending UNDECLARED items. I never really understood what type of items might get us into trouble, either. Would my Dad’s large carrier bag of dutyfree Silk Cut and Courvoisier get us arrested, perhaps? It always felt to me like we were running the gauntlet every time we flew…

Another point about flying. Why is it that it always takes no less than hours and hours for this aforementioned process of marching and collecting? It’s like you enter a black hole when you touch down at any airport. Eg, Flight BA129 lands at 9.35am and your Captain-Speaking satisfyingly tells you that you’ve arrived early and the weather is fine. But then next thing you know its midday and you’re still at the carousel watching every suitcase, except your own, rattle past. It is definitely one of the greater questions in life. And I am almost certain it is a conspiracy that just as I am showing signs of panic, just as I am realising that this time my suitcase really has been sent to Honolulu, and as I am dismally wishing I had travelled in my favourite skinny jeans not my ugly tracksuit bottoms, it mysteriously pops out of through the hole. Oh, the triumph! And, speaking of which, what is on the other side of that mysterious flapping hole?  Is it a very very long tunnel that would lead me back to the aeroplane if I were to follow it? It is almost impossible to resist the temptation to just go and have a quick peek…

Finally, though, after years of flying, these question marks hovering over my holidays just stopped bothering me and I just accepted them as the way.of.life.

So, here I was back on the shores of Blightly. Hurrah! Some time ago I started to blissfully imagine what I would do with this lovely long expanse of summertime I had stretching out in front of me. Of course I would visit lots of beautiful, terribly English places. I will cook summery, delightful English food. I will amaze friends and family with exotic, non-English stories. Not to mention, of course, the sun will be perpetually shining, and I will be surrounded with happy, smiley people who will drop everything to do all these exciting things with me… Could my rose tinted glasses have been more tightly attached to my face?

But I didnt care! To me Heathrow airport was bright and welcoming, not heaving with orange coloured, package-holiday-makers. The M25 was buzzing with life, not gridlocked and traffic laden. Warlingham was a green and pleasant village, not the epitome of Croydon suburbia. I failed to recognise the tiredness of my kind Mum and Sister who had unquestioningly woken up at 4.30am to collect me, but just chatted at them incessantly about all the wonderful things I would like to do with the very, very long time I had…

But my ‘how wonderful thou art, O’ England’ spectacles did not lie or fail me in any way. Ok, granted, I tried to fit a bit more into three weeks than I should have, and I did spend my time rushing from that well known, metaphorical pillar to post, but I had the most exciting, hilarious and precious time doing so.

From day one I was squeezing every drop out of the time I had; collecting unusual stones with my niece and nephew amongst the stripey deckchairs on Brighton beach, munching on choccywoccy cake and wandering through the cobbled streets in the lanes. Then in a flurry of excitement I was dashing around over wedding preparations with brides-to-be, then shopping with old friends, sitting in the sun, eating delicious lunches and wandering the shops of Bicester Village. I was suprising people in all manner of guises and there were many, many laughs and a few happy tears. I was meeting brand new little people, and witnessing the evidence of more to come. Thanks to an incredibly special little helper (plus one) my three weeks ran into a never ending haze of sun, great company, covered markets, bouncey castles, pink fizzy, barbeques, cup cakes, and mad hatter tea parties. I was lucky enough to visit the sunny, English seaside with my family, to relive the beauty of Oxford’s dreaming spires with some of my dearest friends and spend a night giggling in a tent in Gloucestershire. I even had a wonderful, warm Sunday evening watching the sun set over the Thames from the Oxo tower with a bottle of wine, three very special ladies and one future bride. As we toasted to our bride and our friendship that evening, I caught myself thinking how lucky I am. How lucky to have a group of friends that I consider to be more like sisters, who just tell each other ‘like it is’ and love each another dispite our bizarre quirks and our foibles. Friends who I have known since I was very young, who I have grown up with. I can hardly believe so many years have past and how much we’ve grown since we all met. I considered what we’ve each been through since we were little and how proud I was to be there, right then, with these same beautiful, smiley faces. We have stayed arm in arm through some difficult times, and there is no question we will always be there, probably still chewing each others ears off and then laughing about it, way in the future, no matter where in the world we end up and how difficult life might be. There was just one face missing from the table beside the river that day, and she was sorely missed.

So, then, the finale of my terrifically English holiday was the almost-fairytale wedding set amongst the vineyards of Denbies. We ended the night at the Burford Bridge hotel, with the backdrop of Box Hill looking less like Surrey than something straight from the foothills of the karst cliffs in Krabi. I was so proud to be a part of such a beautiful weekend. As I knew they would, the happy couple looked serene and lovely. The attention to detail was wonderful. Not to mention the excitement and adrenaline of the run up and the days following which were each so silly, hectic and fun filled, I simply didn’t want them to end…

But end it must, and end it did. My days ticked into weeks and before I knew it, it was time to head back to Heathrow and wave goodbye to my family, the lights and the buildings of Home. There had been people and places I hadn’t got to see, there were things I’d planned to do that had fallen off my radar but all in all Home was exactly as I remembered it to be. It was comforting to know that time hadn’t changed it too much. People were getting on with life, and exciting things were happening in my absence but I knew I could always come back and pick up exactly where I left off. I departed that day reflective, contented and enthusiastic to return to my new life overseas, knowing Home and all her contents will always be waiting, but in the mean time the details are fresh and finely drawn in my memory again.

As anyone who knows me will testify, I am a self confessed, unapologetic foodie. I can merrily amble the streets of any city, gazing lovingly over brunch menus, tapas chalk boards, sushi belts, coffee lists and cake stalls. In fact, there is nothing I love more than discovering each and every tucked away corner, and planning where our next restaurant trip will take us. I can even while away hours in the local supermarket analysing each jar, tub and bag to see which may bring something new and exciting in my next experiment. And what is more exciting than a market in an unfamiliar country, bringing with it a whole new world of different local food? I suspect most people may think I am totally bonkers. Visiting food shops is usually just a dull necessity in life, but for me the local market is my playground.

I was very excited when we chose to visit Auckland’s annual ‘Cheesefest’. Held in the Langham Hotel, it was literally a large dining room filled with row on row of different cheeses to try. Some were local, some were familiar, some were exotic. They were handing out halloumi, havarti, goats cheese and blue brie on platters left, right and centre, as well as serving drinks at the wine bar, (hic!) breads and dips and best of all – taster portions of Kapiti icecream to finish off. Food lover’s heaven!

We pushed our way through the crowds and managed to try a fair amount of the offerings. The event was fun, and definitely tasty but I did find myself wondering what they would do with all the cheese at the end of the night. The place was packed out with people, and there was definitely lots of cheese munching going on, but there wasn’t even a dent made in the amount they had on display to try. What would happen to it when the doors closed? Was someone responsible for handing it out to less fortunate people in desperate need of dairy? Would it just go in the bin? What a waste of perfectly good cheese…

I considered hanging around to find out, but we actually left the Langham and my cheese wastage worries behind after about an hour. We must have exceeded our 2010 cheese quota in that one hour. I left so full of cheese, I haven’t really eaten it since. That must be the only way to curb an obsession. I wonder if there is a chocolate-fest?

I genuinely surprise myself when I admit that I like Auckland so much more the second time round. It really does have more to offer than just cheap drinks and fast food. (Honestly Rosh!) It has exciting boutique shops, great markets, wonderful sea front bars, smiley people and who can forget that stunning skyline. It has three beautiful harbours and 48 volcanic cones. The whole region of Auckland covers everything from the rugged west coast, with it’s black sand beaches, over mountain ranges, through the city centre, over to the white sandy beaches of the east coast and out to the islands of the Hauraki Gulf (none of which we have yet explored). But what really sets this city apart is the fact that it has more yachts per person than any other city in the world. The harbor is teeming with hundreds of boats of all shapes and sizes.

So what? That is what I first thought. So it has boats. Lots of harbour cities have boats. Yes, I like boats. They are quite nice to look at from said seafront bars and even nicer to sail around in when you get the chance. But, what makes a city with practically more yachts than people different to any other? I had no idea until I was sat on our balcony on the first beautifully sunny friday afternoon and watched in wonder. Instead of seeing M25 tail backs or Oxford ring road jams, I saw Auckland’s equivalent of friday rush hour and it was… incredible. Stretching as far as the eye could see, the harbour was a flurry of boats of all dimensions, each whizzing, bobbing or gently drifting out and over the horizon. It was then I really saw Auckland’s individual charm. Not to mention the city has everything you might need, right on its doorstep.  And no wonder so many Aucklanders have yachts; apart from the chance to see the skyline from the water, most of these places are more accessible by water than road. Sadly owning a boat is not on the cards for us, but I need to make friends with someone who does. I decide that shouldn’t be too hard.

Ok. Time to explain myself a bit, I think. I’ve been a somewhat silent for the last month or two. Its been a rollercoaster. There has been more to see, explore, experience and digest than I had ever dreamed of and I have documented every second in my mind, but never translated it from memory to page. I might try now, but I think you’d be bored after just the first week of January. My travel through Australia was a journey of laughter, wonderful company, inexhaustible beautiful views, exciting exploration and some of the best times of my life. It was genuinely incredible. I am still in awe that one country can offer so much and thank you to the people I was lucky enough to share that with.

In brief, our travels took us from Magnetic Island for Christmas to snorkeling over the stunning coral of the Barrier Reef. Then we camped right on the waterfront of the most breath-taking beaches in the world - Whitehaven. Following that we spent a few brilliant nights in party capital Cairns seeing in the new year. From there we zipped up the coast to Cape Tribulation and spent a wonderful night in the tropical rainforest. After another stop off in Cairns, we flew down to Brisbane and spent some short but sweet time in Byron Bay (and learnt that I am not good at bodyboarding…) and the dubious town of Tweed Heads. Here we collected rental car number 3; a Hyundai Getz. I have a tip for you all here… never.buy.a.Hyundai.Getz. We have most definitely gone down the rungs of rental vehicles. What a curiously strange, backwards place Tweed Heads was. That will teach us to not book ahead for Byron on a festival weekend. From there our travels led us to the little hippy town of Nimbin. If you’ve never heard of it, look it up. In Nimbin we were lucky enough to watch a family of platypus (platypi? platypuses?) accompanied by a long-haired, baggy clothed couple eating tofu. They gravely informed us they have come to this bridge every day (probably, judging by their clothes, since the Aquarius festival in 1973) to hopefully catch a glimpse of these creatures and seeing them on our first attempt was incredibly lucky. Brilliant. I could have stayed on that bridge for some time. Maybe not 37 years, mind.

After an odd night in a motel with doilies, a serving hatch from beside the front door, an inbuilt bedside tv remote control system delivered straight from the 50s and an avocado bathroom in Tweed Heads, and our short stint in Nimbin, we flew down to Melbourne. Here we drove through the Victoria countryside to revisit Rutherglen for wine tasting and cycling. Our road trip to Rutherglen saw us collect rental car number 4; a much more respectable and spacious Toyota, but when we had to squeeze in 5 people, 5 large backpacks and multiple extra bags, our big car lost its appeal. And guess who was given middle-back-seat duty? Yes indeed. On arrival we ditched the car in favour of bikes to ‘legally’ visit the wineries. What a brilliant idea, I hear you cry. Yes, go on – guess who’s idea that was. Thank you Mr Wood! But let me tell you, I really missed the car, even the evil Hyundai Getz, when we were still cycling in the unsheltered 35 degrees blazing heat, dehydrated and exhausted. (Did I not learn from my Race for Life experience last year?) Thinking about it – maybe it is under those conditions that I would actually buy a Hyundai Getz. Is there is a marketing strategy in there somewhere? Desperation. Perhaps I should contact Hyundai…

Yes, so from Rutherglen back to Melbourne. And here we stayed for the next week or so. We landed ourselves the most beautiful apartment in the CBD, overlooking the river and Federation Square. It was pure backpacker bliss after the weird and wonderful accommodation choices we had experienced over the previous weeks. Our lives in Melbourne brought us everything from tennis to art galleries, cheeky vimtos to pieface, threeman to ACDC. We even danced on stage with a full air band of long-haired, ginger men banging their heads to Meatloaf (were they imported in from Nimbin, perhaps?). I wondered at that point of my life whether we had seen it all.

From Melbourne we hopped over to Tasmania and saw some of the most stunning beaches and mountains I think I have ever seen. What an absolute jewel in Australia’s crown, and how often this beautiful place is overlooked. I fell in love with the place and fully intend to go back and see the parts that we missed. The Bay of Fires blew my mind and we were literally the only people on this beautiful, crystal clear water and white sanded beach. After a short week in Tassie we then travelled back to Melbourne for our last leg in Australia and finally waved goodbye to ACDC Lane from the window of an aeroplane at the beginning of February.

So this brings me back to my starting point today; the City of Sails. Its been a journey indeed getting here and we’ve walked, seen, danced and felt more in the last few months than I can remember ever experiencing before. There have been some immense highs and some soul destroying lows where homesickness can be utterly self destructive, but I am here. And as I sit on the balcony and watch the boats float effortlessly out of the harbour and beyond, I feel grateful to be the one sitting still, watching others embark on their travels. A true journey is only as good as you make it and the people you experience it with and I couldn’t have asked for more. But, even only part of the way through ours, it feels wonderful to press pause and take in some fresh air. And there is plenty of fresh air here.