ASPECTS OF LONDON

Waterloo Bridge has no greater significance beyond the many other bridges that span the Thames. Every vault has its own history, and that any particular recapitulation may be considered more vital than another is surely moot – a matter for taste or self-interest. That said, Waterloo Bridge was rebuilt by a largely female workforce during the Second World War, which to some might seem remarkable. For those who lived through that conflict it should appear less so. In stark contrast to our Teutonic enemy, Great Britain embraced the potential of its female workforce and invested in them all sorts of heavy, menial tasks. What is worthy of remark is the fact that, on officially revealing the reconstructed article, there was no mention of the 25,000 female workers who'd put their back into building it. None the less, it is known to many Londoners as 'Ladies Bridge', which is an appreciation of sorts.

Hewn from Portland stone – a material respected for its ‘self-cleaning' properties, the process of lithification peculiar to this rock offering a resilience to the elements that appropriates its use in more urban settings – it is a graceful, contemporary bridge, cantilever in design. Its situation – breaching a north to east meander in the river – offers contrasting views. The riparian aspect to the south-west has changed very little in recent times. The London Eye has rested upon the south bank of the Thames for over 15 years now, its initial five year planning application having long been forgotten, renewed, and the matter presumably taken over by the GLA or the LDA. I'm not sure I like the London Eye being there – I like it, but maybe not there – but have come to accept it. I am grateful for the buildings that lie beside – the Royal Festival Hall in particular – for they are just about capable of bearing the responsibility of ensuring that this ridiculous Ferris wheel doesn’t completely detract from its surroundings.

The bank of the Thames that faces the London Eye represents a completely different proposition. Compromised of Whitehall Court, the Norman Shaw Buildings and Portcullis House, it is a spiky, perpendicular Gothic apparition very much in keeping with London's mythic pre-blitz past, and one that jars with the neoclassical Ministry of Defence building and the Shell Centre (more Portland Stone) on the other side of the river (post war developments both). This architectural disparity evokes visions of some of the formerly Soviet cities of central Europe – Budapest springs to mind. One barely notices the towers of Battersea Power Station, or the panelled, glass-clad buildings beyond that are coming to define present-day Vauxhall.

In any case, we have an amalgamation of architectural style that appears to seek concord with a vision of London as a low-rise city. Forget the towers – Elizabeth and Victoria – that protrude from the Palace of Westminster: they are mere aberrations and not all that tall anyway.

Looking east offers an entirely different perspective. It is to The City that I point this charge: The Gherkin, the Walkie-Talkie, Leadenhall Building, Heron Tower, CityPoint, and the many other developments that have filled in the gaps in and around Liverpool Street, St. Pauls and Fenchurch Street. The depth of field is deceptive and it’s not as clustered as it looks, but from Ladies Bridge it appears a symphony of glass and height. Add to this the Blackfriars Bridge development, with its fragmented solar panelled roof, and the illusion is complete. The City of London is beginning to resemble some sort of Oriental metropolis, like Beijing or Singapore.

A similar thing happened to Docklands not so long ago, but without the ancient physical characteristics that have been forcefully assimilated into this new City of London. Docklands was a waste-land by comparison, and seems less exotic. There’s more of an American flavour to it, laid out along perpendicular lines.

There are other areas of London that exhibit their own distinct architectural flavour, although this distinction in character is not always so perceivable from street-level. If The City represents some sort of futurist, Eastern vision with English Baroque elements, and the west a comfy tribute to both Europe’s Napoleonic and Soviet past, then Southwark offers up yet another schizophrenic tableaux. The South Bank extols the Brutalism that took hold after the Second World War: Bankside Power Station in the guise of the Tate Modern, and the whole of the Southbank Centre. Yet the area behind is a mix of Victorian terracing and low-rise tower blocks, and glass fronted buildings are intruding at any given opportunity. I like the atmosphere in and around Southwark, although it’s hard to put a finger on.

I wonder how much of this is deliberate. I speculate as to whether those in charge of town planning really know what they are doing. I entertain the thought that the whole of London is one circumstantial accident, and that its visual impact is entirely arbitrary. It probably is, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. My concern, however, is that over time these separate architectural enclaves will segue into one another, as land is sold and built upon in whatever style happens to be à la mode. And then one could stand on Ladies Bridge and whichever way one looked would reap only indistinguishable, homogeneous rewards.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 24 - TWO NIGHTS IN BANGKOK / EPILOGUE

 

05/04/03: Breakfast at some swanky joint before boarding our flight back to Bangkok. Book into Kho San Palace and go straight to bed.

 

06/04/03: Breakfast at Wally’s. Look for souvenirs for relatives. Go to Siam Square for a third and final time. Tea at Chart; drinks at Dong Dea Moon, the Banana Leaf and Hole in the Wall.

 

07/04/03: Hungover. Send e-mails. Rainbows for coffee. Buy more souvenirs. Place with spinning ball for more coffee. Eat at Wally’s and then get a cab to the airport for flight home…

 

 

When we’d booked our flights a year earlier, we decided a few nights in Bangkok might make the passage home easier to bear. When it came to it, I regretted us not arranging to stay for longer. The temperate climate of New Zealand had left me with a yearning for tropical heat, as well as the poignant aromas that come with it: grilled meat, fish sauce, garlic, even the smell of stagnant drains. We entertained the idea of putting back our flights, but I didn’t know if this was something I could afford to do and was in no fit state to carry on regardless. In New Zealand, I’d put back on a bit of the weight I’d lost in Southeast Asia, but my general condition wasn’t great and my clothes were torn and frayed.

In keeping with C’s enthusiasm for fine dining, he drives us somewhere nice for breakfast before dropping us off at the airport ahead of our flight to Bangkok, which will take something like twelve hours. The time difference between Auckland and Bangkok works in our favour and we arrive at the Kho San Palace, to check into the room we had the foresight to book before we left for New Zealand, at around midnight.

Breakfast at Wally’s. This must be at least our tenth visit, and it will not be our last. Peruse the gift shops on Rambuttri Alley, a charming street that runs parallel to the Khao San Road, and wonder why it was that we hadn’t spent more time here during our previous visits. Back to Siam Square to make last minute purchases and take shelter from the sun. It’s hotter now than it has been at any other time since arriving in November, with an average daily high of at least 35°C. In less than a week Songkran will commence, a national holiday that once denoted the beginning of the Thai New Year, in accordance with the solar calendar. It is traditional to engage in the throwing of water, to symbolically cleanse sins and to relieve one another of the heat. If we’d known about this when we scheduled out flights then we would surely have accommodated it.

We eat at Chart. I don’t know why here and not, say, Gulliver’s, but I do know that our last night in Bangkok is about drinking rather than eating. We go to Dong Dea Moon for old time’s sake, then to new favourite The Banana Leaf, and finally Hole in the Wall. The Hole in the Wall is where it all started – the first bar we frequented, where we were impressed with how the staff kept your beers cold for you until you were ready to drink them. Pipi’s still there, hustling around the pool table, but I don’t think he recognises me. Why should he?

It’s a heavy night – I drink Chang, not Singha – and a bittersweet one. The next morning, hungover, I can only manage coffee for breakfast. Our flight isn’t until the evening, so there’s plenty of time to recover, and we return to Walley’s for lunch. Nothing is enjoyable from thereon in: pick up our luggage, taxi to the airport, passport control, customs, and then just waiting, with nothing in particular to look forward to.

 

'Hole in the Wall'

When we touched down at Heathrow, it was typically overcast – no rain, just that grim low-lying cloud that we get so much of in the UK. It was a genuinely depressing situation. Freed from the anxiety and trepidation that I suffered at the beginning of my trip, I hadn’t wanted to come home, maybe ever. The next month or so was spent moving about between my parents’ house in Plymouth, Louise’s in Upminster, and my brother’s in Wandsworth, as I went about signing-on, seeking employment and a place to live. It turned out that I had more money left over than I’d thought, although given my predicament it was probably just as well I hadn’t spent more of it.

The routine that afflicts Western living seemed absurd now, even if it did come with certain benefits. What was harder to reconcile was the sheer formality of things – being expected to dress a certain way, cross the road at predetermined points, or being told to turn up to work at a specific point in time. Not to mention so-called first world problems and the sense of entitlement a lot of people seem to possess. It wasn’t as if I didn’t appreciate any of this before, just that I saw it now with greater clarity: that modes of living are generally arbitrary in nature and that our problems are rarely a matter of material survival.

But travelling had been an unsustainable way of life. I may have exaggerated the volume we drank, for dramatic effect, but we did by and large drink every day, if only because there had been very little else to do in the evening. Our movements had been governed by our whims, bereft of any impetus other than boredom or a vague curiosity. This was not altogether a bad thing because it gave room for places, or people, to surprise you. In this respect, travelling is a form of gambling. No matter what the guidebook says, you don’t usually know whether you’re making the right move. Thing is, the stakes are never very high, because there’s not anywhere that isn’t worth even a brief visit, and there aren’t many places so amazing that it’s worth staying for much more than a week. And so you plod on aimlessly without a care for anything, until you realise that you're in thrall to a different sort of routine, but a routine nonetheless.

TRAVEL: NEW ZEALAND 3 - THE SOUTH ISLAND (EAST)

28/03/03: Check out. Eat a Subway by the lake. Bus to Christchurch and book into Star Times Backpackers on Cathedral Square. Indian at the Asian Food Mall, Bailies Bar for drinks.

 

29/03/03: Do laundry. Coffee at The Daily Grind, check emails, wander around town, coffee, at C-1 Good, eat at hostel. Welsh L and K show up. Get drunk at Bailies and hostel bar.

 

30/03/03: Hungover. Drive to Akaroa on the Banks Peninsula. Get back, walk to stadium and take photos of Christchurch. More drinks at Bailies with L and K.

 

 

Everything is in place to get us back to Auckland: a coach to Christchurch and two nights’ accommodation; a coach to Kaikora, another two nights’ accommodation; a bus to Nelson, a night in a hostel and an early ferry to Wellington; finally, an overnight train all the way to Auckland. Having it all laid out like this means we can go about enjoying the remainder of our time here without worrying over logistics or the cost of it all. (My partner and I can't take all the credit. We explained our predicament to the travel agent who then came up with the plan and made the arrangements, and did so with much enthusiasm.)

M and S get up early and join us for breakfast down by the lake before we depart. S has more time to spare than we do, so she’s going to hang around in Queenstown for a few more days and continue her journey at a more leisurely pace. It’s possible that she also has the option of staying with Fergus.

In 2010 and 2011 Christchurch suffered a series of earthquakes. In fact, seismologists classify the subsequent quakes – including the most substantial, occurring on 22 February 2011 – as aftershocks resulting from the first, which happened on 4 September 2010. All the buildings that I photographed in 2004 – the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament, Lancaster Park Stadium, the Government Life Building and Press Building on Cathedral Square, as well as the Cathedral itself – were damaged by the quake(s) to such an extent that they have either since been demolished or condemned. The loss of the Press Building is particularly sad. Built between 1907 and 1909, in a perpendicular Gothic style, it was one of Christchurch’s more interesting structures. Conversely, the Government Life Building was considered to be one of the city’s ugliest. I did not share in this assessment and admired its modernist sensibility.

Two other buildings that no longer exist are the Lyttelton Times/Star Building and the Warner’s Hotel next door but one, both overlooking Cathedral Square. The Lyttelton Times was once the home of the newspaper it was named after. In 2004 it was operating as a hostel called Star Times Backpackers, which was where we were booked to stay. (The Star Building was actually built as an extension to the Lyttelton Times Building, and presumably named after the company’s evening paper, The Star.)

 

Government Life Building

The drive to Christchurch takes about eight hours, with a number of stops along the way – Ashburton, Tekapo, Cromwell, Frankton. Sometimes these stops are to admire views, often they are for comfort. After checking into Star Times Backpackers, we walk down Colombo Street, take in the malls and have something to eat in one of the food halls therein. It’s been a long day, so in the evening we venture no further than Bailies Bar, occupying the ground floor of Warner’s Hotel. It’s a traditional pub entertaining an older crowd than I’ve become accustomed to, which I quite like.

The following morning we attend to our laundry, go for coffee on New Regent Street – a pedestrianised mall built in the Spanish Mission architectural style – and wander around town. Despite being New Zealand’s second largest city it strikes me as smaller than the third, which is Wellington. I think this is because it is less densely packed, lower in rise and adheres to a grid system. That being said, the city centre itself feels European, and there appears to be more shops than there were in Auckland, New Zealand’s largest metropolis.

That evening Welsh L and K show up, as anticipated. The idea is to go on a pub crawl, but we end up bedding down in Bailies for night. We pick apart our shared experience of Asia and smooth over the rough edges that beset our final days together in Siem Reap. The next day, very worse for wear, L and K drive us in their hire car to Akaroa, a small picturesque town on the Banks Peninsula, which is wasted on me.

It’s the middle of the afternoon by we time we get back – early enough to drag Louise to Lancaster Park, a 38,000+ capacity sports stadium to the south-east of the city centre. The journey takes us along High Street, away from City Mall, where there are older, more interesting buildings between more contemporary developments. Beyond the intersection with Madras and St. Asaph streets, the landscape reverts to type: low-rise prefabricated warehouses and thoughtlessly designed office blocks.

Louise and I have be up early for our bus to Kaikoura, so we settle for a quiet night at Bailies. It’s been great hanging out with L and K again, especially in such a contrasting environment to before, and it’s a shame we cannot continue our travels together.

 

 

31/03/03: Nearly miss the bus to Kaikoura. Check in to Dusky Lodge Backpackers. Develop photos while my partner goes whale watching. Drinks at the Strawberry Tree. Back to guesthouse for spit-roast. Rains heavily.

 

01/04/03: Go to town and pick up more photos. Have coffee and walk along the seafront. Bus to Picton and check into Dusky Lodge Backpackers. Early night.

 

 

Either the alarm didn’t go off or we didn’t hear it. We make our bus with literally seconds to spare, without having showered or cleaned our teeth or anything. Fortunately, the drive to Kaikoura is not much more than three hours. Unfortunately, I don’t really like where we’re staying. It’s got that bunkhouse, traveller vibe we found in Rotorua, with gap-year kids stewing in the hot tub. It might have something to do with Kaikoura itself. We are here so that my partner can watch whales and swim with dolphins, and such things attract a certain type.

I’m not interested in doing either, so while she’s watching whales I decide to look for somewhere to develop a roll of film. Mission accomplished, I then go for coffee in the Strawberry Tree, which looks like it might be a nice place for drinks come the evening. An hour passes, I collect my prints and meet my partner along the waterfront. We then return to the Strawberry Tree for lunch and to look at my photos. They are of the North Island. I didn’t know this when I dropped the film off because I have no way of distinguishing one roll from next. I had hoped they might be of Laos or Cambodia, but the developers have done such a good job I no longer mind. I decide to drop off another roll, although I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to pick it up.

Our hostel is putting on a barbeque, so that’s tea sorted. Our plans to go for a few drinks afterwards are thwarted by a torrential downpour and heavy winds, and we end up making a dash for the nearest convenience store, buying a few tins and having an early night.

 

The bad weather persisted. We were awoken yet again by another false fire alarm, before my partner had to be up ridiculously early to swim with dolphins, only for it to be called off on account of the weather conditions. By the time she’d got back the rain had stopped, so we walked into town, picked up my photographs, had breakfast and followed the esplanade as far as the Kaikoura Community Theatre. We then returned to our hostel to collect our things and catch the bus to Picton.

There wasn’t the time to do anything in Picton other than order a takeaway and hang out for an hour or so in the garden of our guesthouse. We had to be up very early to catch the ferry the following day, and the travel agent had booked us a conveniently located, and well appointed, guesthouse with our own private room. Ironic, then, that out of all the dormitories we stayed in this was the only one that had bedbugs.

 

 

02/04/03: Catch the 05:30 morning ferry to Wellington. Walk around town, go for a Subway, buy T-shirt, have coffee, take in a gallery and go for a KFC. Few drinks in Trax before boarding our train to Auckland.

 

03/04/03: Arrive in Auckland. Meet J for lunch. Drop off more film at the developers. Louise goes shopping. Go for a curry in the mall and then back to C’s. Meet J in pub for a couple.

 

04/04/03: Get bus into town to pick up photos. Go to Viz for coffee. Louise decides to develop some of her photos. Back to Viz to check out the results. Loaded Hog for a quick pint. Get bus back to C’s, have dinner and then drive to Ponsonby to bar with high ceiling.

 

 

It’s good to be back in Wellington, even if it is just for one day. There was no time to eat before our departure so we make a dash for the nearest Subway, which is seems to have become our go-to food emporium when we need something quick.

Louise is off to see a Lord of the Rings exhibition at the Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa. I’d quite like to go but I don’t want to withdraw any more money before we fly out in three days’ time. Instead, I’m going to wander around town and enjoy the sunshine. I buy a small, yellow T-shirt in a thrift store for a couple of dollars and then find a free gallery along the waterfront. When Louise is done we go for a KFC, out of convenience, and then make our way to the station, mindful of the consequences should we miss our train. That still leaves us with about an hour to kill, so we settle for a few drinks in a bar called Trax.

 

The train journey across New Zealand takes in some attractive scenery. Not that I got to see any of it: it was dark and I quickly fell asleep. I normally find it difficult to sleep on any form of transport, so I must have been tired – I didn’t even get to see the sun rise.

J has kindly arranged to meet us for a late breakfast/early lunch. Again, it’s good to be back in Auckland, and we make a day of it: develop more photographs (ever since Cambodia, I’ve been paranoid about losing rolls of film, or inadvertently damaging them), drink coffee and go for a curry. Louise buys a sweatshirt (by Karen Walker) she spotted in a magazine (Pavement) I bought in Taupo. While she’s doing this, I walk around town taking photographs having realised that I didn’t take many during our first visit. We meet at the Loaded Hog on the harbour for a quick drink before catching a bus back to Mount Eden. As it’s our last night, C is going to take us to few smart bars in Ponsonby, although his driving there precludes any sort of final blow out.

It’s a fairly subdued evening. Louise and I are sad to be leaving and C is sad to see us go. I have decided that I really like New Zealand, especially its cities. At the same time, I don’t feel like I’ve been in a position to fully exploit them. New Zealand is more a place to live than travel, or somewhere to take a long vacation, stopping over in hotels, rather than hostels, and wearing clothes more suited to a temperamental climate. I would like to return one day.

TRAVEL: NEW ZEALAND 2 - THE SOUTH ISLAND (WEST)

 

17/03/03: Leave guesthouse and return hire car. Get ferry to Picton and then bus to Nelson. Book into ‘Boots’ and have tea at the Victoria Rose. Drinks at various Irish hostelries. Get talking to some Japanese folk.

18/03/03: Go to travel agent and supermarket. Eat at hostel, go to a ‘Full Moon Party’ on beach with my partner, S, a Kiwi guy called Dylan, and some Swedish chap.

19/03/03: Catch bus to Kaiteriteri Beach – very hot, play crazy golf. Back to hostel for an early night.

I liked New Zealand’s North Island but was aware that the country’s more spectacular scenery was to be found on the South Island. Moreover, tentative arrangements had been made to meet up with some of our fellow travellers there: M and E, who were winding up a tour of Australia, and Welsh L and M, who were finishing off in Thailand. On the other hand, I was concerned that the weather might deteriorate the further south we travelled. The last few days had been very positive in this regard, but summer was drawing to a close and I feared a return to the heavy rain we experienced in Rotorua.

The guy who runs the Beethoven insists that his customers join him in some ritual or other over breakfast. We have a boat to catch, and so after a few slices of toast and a cup of coffee we make our excuses and leave. It’s only after we’ve reached the ferry terminal that it dawns on us that we forgot to settle our bill. I don’t feel too bad about it: breakfast was a disappointment, we’d been awoken by an errant fire alarm at about 02:00 in the morning on our first night, the proprietor was a buffoon, and I've no idea how much money I've got left in the bank. In any case, it’s too late to do anything about it, unless we’re prepared to miss our ferry, which we’re not.

The ferry is much bigger than I expected and the crossing far rougher. By the time we’ve navigated the Cook Straight and entered the Bay of Many Coves, the waters have calmed and the sun is shining. We arrive in Picton and quickly find a bus to take us to Nelson, whereupon we walk the short distance to Nelson Central Backpackers – aka ‘Boots’. It is St. Patrick’s Day so after having dinner at the Victoria Rose we hit a few Irish hostelries. We don’t go mad but it’s the most I’ve drunk in a while, having failed to find anywhere suitably inspiring to drink in Wellington.

The next day is given over to boring things. Bereft of a hire car, we need to plan more carefully. We need to procure coach tickets to Franz Josef for the day after tomorrow, and the same for an excursion to Kaiteriteri Beach. To cut down on our expenses we are utilising the facilities at our hostel and will eat there, so we also need to find a supermarket. After all that we end up sharing a cab with a New Zealander from the North Island, who’s also exploring the South Island, to a rumoured party on a beach just the other side of town, which turns out to be a damp squib.

The excursion to Kaiteriteri Beach is more successful. It’s a long drive through mountains and vineyards, but the it feels and looks like summer, so no one complains. Kaiteriteri Beach itself is quite sedate. There’s not much to do other than lie on the beach, play some crazy golf and walk up Kākā Point Historic Reserve, but the sea is crystal clear and the air is hot.

20/03/03: Bus to Franz Josef / Waiau. No room at any of the inns. End up sleeping in a caravan. Pint at local pub, early night. (Second Iraq War begins).

21/03/03: Lift back to Franz Josef and book into Montrose. Partner and S go in a helicopter; I walk to Franz Josef Glacier and then do the Callery-Waiho walk back. Coffee with partner at the Cheeky Kea. Irish bar with both my companions. Blue Ice with partner and ‘Bristol Matt’.

We arrive in Franz Josef / Waiau about mid-afternoon only to find that all the hotels and hostels are fully booked. I find this hard to comprehend. The whole point of staying here is to explore the mountains and marvel at the local glacier, not hang around and party. Nor does it seem to be short on accommodation generally. The staff at one of the hostels take pity on us. They book us in for the following day, while someone else – a UK expat, as it transpires – offers to drive us out of town to spend the night in a dormant caravan in Whataroa, where she lives, and then take us back to Franz Josef, where she works, the following morning. We are not admonished for our short-sightedness and nor are we charged for the use of the caravan. This is typical of New Zealand, where people will go out of their way to help you and think nothing of it.

The caravan that has been offered to us is very small – the sort that people used to hook up to their cars, as opposed to the static, well-appointed behemoths normally found on campsites. There is no heating and it’s too cramped to do anything other than sleep, so we walk down to the only bar in Whataroa for a single pint. It’s a cold night and we’re relieved to be up early for our lift back to Franz Josef.

My partner and S are going up in a helicopter that will them drop them into Westland Tai Poutini National Park to walk around on the ice. I’ll forego this expense and make do with exploring the area on foot. The obvious thing to do is take a look at the glacier, which is about a 4 km walk away. I’m a little underwhelmed by the glacier itself, but it’s a lovely day for it. I figure there’s a more interesting route back to Franz Josef Waiau township than the road I walked in on, and find one: the Callery-Waiho trail, which I will do in reverse. Taken from the Glacier Country website:

The Callery-Waiho walk is an engrossing track that takes about two and a half hours one way. Follow the footsteps of the old gold miners to the Franz Josef Glacier. The path is well-formed and well-marked. There are some steeper sections and areas that can be muddy after rain, so sturdy walking shoes or boots are advised.

I don’t have sturdy walking boots, just a trashed pair of Converse. Luckily, it hasn’t rained around these parts of late and I thoroughly enjoy my rugged hike through this temperate forest. I’ve timed it just right, because I get back at almost the same time as the others; my partner and I go for coffee while S checks her emails.

The evening is a quiet one, spent chatting to some random guy from Bristol. Tomorrow we’re off to Wanaka to check out some weird theme park, which I think is S’s idea.

22/03/03: Get bus to Wanaka (via Manakora). Book into Wanaka Holiday Park, eat something in the park, drinks at Shooters and Kilkenny.

23/03/03: Walk up to Stuart Landsborough's Puzzling World. Get bus to Queenstown and book into Pinewood Lodge. Meet Fergus at Cow Lane, tour of the town, drinks at Winnie Bago’s and Bar Deaux.

We stop twice on the way to Wanaka. I know this because I have photographs taken from beside various roads. Our first port of call is the Haast Visitor Centre about 3 km outside of Haast Township. Our second stop is somewhere in Makarora, which straddles State Highway 6 adjacent to the Makarora River with Mount Aspiring National Park to the west. We eat something at one of these stops but I don’t recall which.

Wanaka overlooks the lake of the same name, with mountains in the distance. It’s a pretty place and more dramatic than anything you’ll find on the North Island. We’re only here for one night and splash out on a cabin at Wanaka Lakeview Holiday Park. In the evening we try a few bars, and for the first time in this country I detect aggro. I think it starts when there’s some confusion regarding pool table etiquette. Coins are placed on the side but is it winner-stays-on, do you just play in pairs, or is it something else entirely? I’m not bothered either way, so we drink up and move on to another soulless Irish bar.

We’ve not spent more than two nights in any one place since leaving Auckland, and I’m looking forward to getting to Queenstown and putting down roots. Before that, though, we’ve got Stuart Landsborough's Puzzling World to tick off. It’s all right, like a three-dimensional Escher painting, and kills a couple of hours before our bus is due.

The journey to Queenstown takes a couple of hours and once we’ve booked into Pine Lodge – another dorm – there’s still time enough to meet up with Fergus, a guy that S worked with in London a few years’ back. It seems that his family are somewhat influential around these parts, in that they supply a lot of the bars and restaurants with booze and own quite a bit of land (citation needed). Drinks on him, then, and we all get a little tipsy.

24/03/03: Subway for breakfast. Fergus takes us for a drive and then lends us another car to drive to Arrowtown. Take dinner at The World with partner, S, a bloke we’ve been obliged to share our dormitory with, and some other feller. Winnie Bago’s for happy hour; Debajo for one after that.

25/03/03: Caddyshack with partner and S to play elaborate crazy golf. Check emails, explore town on my own, KFC with partner, Winnie’s for a couple, with S too. Early night in readiness for…

26/03/03: Go to Milford Sound. Don’t get back until 7.30 p.m. Subway again, Winnie Bago’s to meet M & E. Joined by partner, S, and Fergus who then takes us to a more tucked away bar – drinks on him.

27/03/03: Sort out transport back to Auckland. Go on gondola with partner, S, M and E, and go on the luge. Have tea at The World, a few drinks, play Grass, and then continue drinking back at Pinewood Lodge. See a hedgehog.

The mornings have been getting progressively cooler the farther south we’ve travelled, accentuated by the passing of time as summer transitions into autumn. I don’t like it. It reminds me that my journey is nearing its end, and I don’t think I want it to end. Moreover, I don’t have the clothes to cope with bad weather. A denim or leather jacket would be useful right now, as would more quotidian stuff like jeans, warmer jumpers and a solid pair of trainers.

Sartorial shenanigans and chilly mornings aside, my first impressions of Queenstown are good. Parts of it have been pedestrianised and there are interesting shops and pleasant cafes where you can sit outside in the sun and look up at the surrounding mountains. Some of the buildings are even built of bricks.

After breakfast, we meet up with Fergus who takes us for a drive around the immediate area. He then kindly lends us another vehicle so we can explore further – he recommends Arrowtown, an old gold-mining town about 20 km away. New Zealand doesn’t do ‘old’ so it sounds intriguing. It turns out to be pleasant enough, and there are buildings that are undoubtedly of an earlier vintage, but there’s an ersatz feel to it, like being on a film-set.

It takes over four hours to drive to Milford Sound from Queenstown. It’s a distance of about 300 km but you have to factor in the Homer Tunnel, which is one-way and so you have to wait until it’s clear before driving the 1.2 km underneath the Darran Mountain Range at the Homer Saddle. It’s worth it; Milford Sound is immense. Waterfalls poor over sheer rock faces rising well over 1,000 metres either side of you, some of them obscured by low-lying cloud. As the fiord widens to meet the Tasman Sea, it becomes rough. You may spot dolphins, or even whales, certainly seals.

While we’ve been marvelling over glacial formations and deep lakes, M and E have arrived in Queenstown. Since we last hung out with them in Koh Phangan, they’ve been to Laos, Vietnam and Australia. Fergus has been made aware of their presence and seizes the opportunity to play the perfect host. He takes us all to a shady bar, which he may well own, and plies us with free drinks and games of pool. It is possibly the best evening I’ve had in New Zealand since we ended up at that party in Ohakune.

We will not share each other’s company for long. My partner and I have about a week and half to work our way back to Auckland and take in what we can of the South Island’s east coast. We also have a date in Christchurch with Welsh L and K to consider. I don’t know if we’ve been hanging on for M and E’s arrival but the time has come to ride the skyline up Cemetery Hill and have a go on the luge.

Take the driving seat with the gravity-fuelled Skyline Luge, the global thrill ride for all ages. Our purpose-built Luge carts put you in complete control as you take on over 800 metres of banked corners, tunnels and dippers. Once you’ve conquered the course, hop on the chairlift and do it all again, and again, and again. Gentle and leisurely or steep and adventurous, you’ll be hooked. Once is never enough!

Indeed it isn’t. We race down it five times: twice on the scenic, thrice down the advanced. On top of all that, the view over Queenstown and towards The Remarkables – a mountain range southeast of Queenstown – is spectacular. I could happily stay a few more days in Queenstown, especially now M and E are here, but my partner and I have to be on our way.

TRAVEL: NEW ZEALAND 1 - THE NORTH ISLAND

05/03/03: C picks us up from the airport and takes us to his home in Mount Eden.

06/03/03: Wake up very late. Get bus into Auckland and meet C's friend J at the Loaded Hog. C follows and takes us to Devonport and a posh restaurant. S, the well-travelled friend of mine who always said that she could imagine that I was the sort who would take to seeing a bit of the world, arrives. She is travelling in the other direction.

07/03/03: Go into Auckland with Louise and S, have coffee, check email and then stop by the Loaded Hog. Return back to C’s, who then drives us to the Pasifika(?) Festival. Head back into town, to a random pub, and then to ‘Europe’ where we play pool.

08/03/03: Saturday, and C takes us to ‘Bees on the Line' to meet his folks. On to a beach that resembles the one from The Piano, but isn’t. Meet S back at the Pasifika Festival. Attempt a night of it with partner, C, J and S, and Eva, who S has been sharing a dormitory with; Deschlers (trendy) and Hagan's (not so trendy).

09/03/03: Wigs on the Waterfront (whatever that is) with partner, S, C and J. Back to Devonport with the aforementioned, minus C. Partner, S and J get chatted up by sailors. Tea at C's - scallops.

Auckland is not typical of New Zealand. Its vast sprawl is punctuated by a comparatively small area of high rise development, but this hub of urban activity could be seen, depending on your point of view, as the jewel in the North Island’s crown. The hosting of the America's Cup for two consecutive tournaments has transformed the inner city into a suave playground for the wealthy – like Monaco or some other insular European hangout. At night they garishly illuminate Auckland’s 328 metre tall Skytower, which looms over proceedings like a giant syringe. From time to time, they change the colour. Today it is mauve.

We were to stay in Auckland with C, a mild mannered Kiwi who worked with my partner during his time living in London. It was nice to see him, but nicer still to have access to his bathroom and kitchen and things. He lived in what was approaching the suburbs, which meant waiting for buses, at actual bus stops, whenever we wanted to head into town.

I liked Auckland, but it felt strange being there. I wasn’t used to waiting at traffic lights, sleeping in silence, or having to wear second layers. After nearly four months spent wandering South East Asia, I was a bit like the Vietnam veteran glued to the bar during the wedding scene in The Deer Hunter, who doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t really feel like he was anything he needs to say.

But I did like Auckland, and I liked it when C took us to a beach that resembled the one from The Piano, but was not the actual beach because the actual beach was too far away to drive to, and this beach looked similar enough – except I didn’t think it really did. We were lucky with the weather (for now) and we could get away with short sleeves by day, even if our shorts were now surplus to requirements. The America’s Cup had recently reached fruition, which generated an atmosphere. And it was great to eat real bread and real cheese, and crisps like you could get back home.

Devonport

It was never planned, but while we were away Louise's friend, S, arranged to meet us in New Zealand. She was on her way out to Thailand, and she may have been visiting her sister in Australia too. She wasn’t sure if she’d stay with us for the whole time but it was agreed that we would explore the North Island together, and hire a car to do so. The only reservation I now had – aside from the cooler climate – was how our evenings were going to pan out. We had a lot to squeeze in over a relatively short period of time, and it wasn't going to be practical to hang around in one particular place for days at a time – little opportunity for late night parties or impromptu piss-ups in people’s rooms. That said, I knew that I should probably rein it in a bit, so maybe this wasn't such a bad thing.

         Then there was J, an English girl C knew though his local church. C had to work by day, but J was more flexible and made an effort to meet up with us and show us around the city. She was good company but not the partying type, and I did feel like Auckland was probably going to be one of the better places to drink in New Zealand. Friday was good, playing pool in a bar along the waterfront, and on Saturday we attended an outdoor festival, although I don't recall there being much booze. Devonport across the bay reminded me of Devon, and after a nice meal at C's I was pretty much ready to move on again, out of curiosity as much as anything else.

10/03/03: Pick up hire car and head south-eastward. Lunch in Cambridge, arrive at Rotorua and book into the Hot Rock, and walk around the lake. Drink at the Lava Bar which is attached to our hostel. Eat at chipper, nightcap in Lava Bar.

11/03/03: Café for breakfast and drive to Devil’s Gate – tips it down. Visit Maori Church, Mexican for tea, Hennessey’s Irish Bar, the Pig & Whistle and Lava Bar for drinks.

A car is hired and we hit the road. At first, the landscape disappoints; it could be England on a bad day. This is the only time I will feel this way towards New Zealand’s scenery. We stop in a town called Cambridge for lunch, and it’s all a bit National Trust. Remember, I feel like I’ve just completed a four month tour of duty in Vietnam, so I’m very sensitive to all of this. It must be obvious, too, for I have a heavy tan, I’m underweight, and my hair is in terrible condition. (I tried rectifying that last issue with a pair of C’s scissors back at his house in Auckland, with only marginal gains).

Our destination is Rotorua, an area rampant with thermal activity. The city of Rotorua itself, such as it is, overlooks a large but shallow lake, and geysers and mud pools surround much of it. The hydrogen sulphate emissions permeate all around and are responsible for the conurbation’s sobriquets: ‘Sulphur City’ and ‘Rotten-rua’, the noxious odour resembling that of rotting eggs. The local architecture wouldn't look out of place on an industrial estate. The bars are half empty. We have to share a dormitory with strangers. The next day it rains heavily and constantly.

Yet I do not mind it here. There’s something rather quaint about our surroundings that not even the youthful travellers can distract from. I feel no need to commune with them. I feel no kinship, no shared enthusiasm. They seem too concerned with outdoor activities and not interested enough in socialising or taking in their environment. I don’t think they’ve been to Asia, although they may well be going there soon.

The night before we leave for Lake Taupo, we go for a drink in a place called Hennessey's. It’s supposed to be an Irish pub, and I’m detecting an affinity here for all things Celtic – a common affliction among those living in Great Britain’s English speaking former colonies. 'Let’s Make this Precious' by Dexys Midnight Runners plays on the jukebox, and for the first time in a long while I wonder what it might be like to be back home.

12/03/03: Drive to Wai-o-Tapu Thermal Wonderland. On to Taupo itself and book in to Burke’s. Go and see ‘Craters on the Moon’, dinner at Burke’s, Holy Cow for drinks and games of pool.

13/03/03: Walk to Haka Falls – consider bungee jumping. Check out town, Irish pub for nightcap.

14/03/03: My partner and S elect to skydive, so I walk around town and pause for some lunch. Drive to Ohakune in the afternoon, passing through a desert. Play pool at the Pioneer Bar and end up at a party in the bar next door.

The weather significantly improves on the drive to Lake Taupo. It is March and the tail end of summer so we’ve no right to expect wall-to-wall sunshine, and nor do we, but this is much more like it. En route we stop at Wai-o-Tapu and its ‘Thermal Wonderland’. This is New Zealand’s premier geothermal attraction, renowned for its brightly colourful lakes, boiling mud pools and active geysers. It’s surrounded by evergreen forest, and an amazing place.

Once we’ve reached Taupo and booked into Burke’s, we drive to ‘Craters on the Moon’, a more rugged exponent of the geothermal field, but still very much worth a visit. The evening’s drinks are taken at the Holy Cow, and S and I end up competing together in a game of pool. We are eliminated in the first round, but deserved to progress to the next – our opponents tell us so after they fluke their winning pot.

The weather continues to please and the architecture to disappoint in equal measure. S badgers my partner into sky-diving submission. I make it very clear that I will not be joining them. On walking to Haka Falls we pass a bungee platform overlooking the river below. For the first and last time in my life I consider what it might be like to partake. New Zealand is a country for thrill-seekers, which I am not.

Wai-o-Tapu

Ohakune is different from the other towns of the central plateau. Skiing is its trade (as well as carrots) and so during summer it reaches remarkable heights of sedation, but this is a good thing. Gone are the 'Kiwi Kids' and the 'Magic Bus' – organised tours that shuttle the youth around the country, delivering them from one adrenaline high to the next. After driving through the impressively raw Tongario National Park to get there, we find a hotel in which we will be the only guests. We have the floor’s living space entirely to ourselves. It’s just a shame we’ve only the time to spend the one night here.

We – or I, at least – have been drinking pretty much every night since our arrival. However, I cannot recall the last time I was actually intoxicated. We’ve literally been having a pint here or a couple of bottles there. I wasn’t even particularly drunk the night we spent out in Auckland, and I’ve certainly not suffered a hangover since we left Thailand.

The evening starts off mildly enough. We find a typically low key New Zealand bar and stop for a few drinks. Such bars are pretty unspectacular, and will often serve the dual purposes of both pub and betting shop. Only slight consideration is given towards the décor, and there’s often a pool table present, sometimes even a dart board, as well television screens showing sport. In ethos, they’re as utilitarian as many an old-school boozer back home but without the character, for New Zealand is sparsely populated and many of the towns are built from prefabricated materials.

Foreigners don’t much frequent Ohakune off season, so the locals take an interest in us. This is brilliant because I’ve been feeling quite isolated of late. They’re a friendly bunch and we’re invited to join a private party that’s going on in the bar next door. I don’t really exploit this opportunity as I might, perhaps mindful of the fact that we’ll be on the move again tomorrow, but I feel like we've had a proper night out and have benefited from the social interaction.

15/03/03: Drive to Whakapapa and ride chairlifts to the top of Mount Ruapehu (almost). On to Wellington and book in at the Beethoven House. Go for a kebab and a few drinks.

16/03/03: Walk to Victoria Point; have a look around town. Coffee in Ragamuffins, watch Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers in the cinema that premiered it. Another Irish bar in the evening.

Before we set off in the direction of Wellington, we’re going to check out Mount Ruapehu.  It’s a ski resort by winter, and just a dormant volcano the rest of the year round. It’s March, so we’re here to see the volcano. From Whakapapa we take the chairlift up to the top the resort, which is still some way short of the actual summit. It is my first time in a chairlift and I don’t like it at all going up but don't mind so much coming down. There’s not much to do at the chalet at the top other than eat soup and speculate on investing in new jumper. Do I need a new jumper? I might need a new jumper – it’s late summer, but there’s no guarantee it will be this warm when we reach New Zealand’s southern sector. I’m not sure how I’m doing financially, so I leave it.

From Tangario National Park to Wanganui the geological feast doesn't let up. Like a cross between a Spaghetti Western and a Van Gogh painting, the steep hills undulate like waveforms. State Highway number 4 weaves its way through the valleys, keeping one eye on the riparian woodland to the road’s west. We don’t have the time to pause in Wanganui and so plough on towards Wellington, New Zealand’s capital and second largest city. We’ve not struggled to find accommodation so far, but nor has our accommodation been ideal. After our morning detour up Mount Ruapehu this will be our latest arrival yet, and there’s a city to circumnavigate in-between.

Mount Ruapehu

Whose idea was it to stay at the Beethoven? The proprietor is a raving lunatic! A theatrical sort with a penchant for – wait for it – Beethoven, it’s hard to know if we’re really welcome or not. We don’t hang around long enough to find out, and depart his backpacker’s retreat for a kebab and a few drinks somewhere else.

Wellington appeals. It feels more city-like than Auckland did. It’s more industrial, more compact, more modern. The sun shines for the duration, we find time to watch the latest instalment of Lord of the Rings, and have a relaxing time of it. S decides she will continue with us to the South Island, which we’ve been told will be the highlight of our time here.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 23 - BANGKOK THE FOURTH

27/02/03: Bus to Bangkok and book into Chart on the Khao San Road. Tea at Gullivers, Dong Dea Moon for a few drinks.

28/02/03: Bump into L on the way to Wally’s. Develop more photographs, dinner at Chart, drinks at Banana Leaf, Dong Dea Moon and then back to the Banana Leaf.

01/03/03: Wally’s for breakfast. Taxi to weekend market, Namaste for an Indian, Chart to watch Catch Me if You Can; Banana Leaf.

02/03/03: Walk to Palace. Check emails, Gullivers for dinner, Hole in the Wall for drinks.

03/03/03: Go to Siam Square and MBK Center (sic). Wally’s for dinner, play cards at Chart – early night.

04/03/03: Wally’s for breakfast, minibus to airport – leave for New Zealand.

We've decided to break with tradition and book into Chart, a hostel that S stayed in during his brief sojourn on the Khao San Road, and one he speaks of highly. It’s not too dissimilar to the Khao San Palace, which you can throw stones at from across the road, except Chart has its own dining area, which the Palace never did.

We have four days and five nights to kill in Bangkok, which is more than we need. One of us floats idea of going someplace else for a couple of nights – Kanchanaburi, say – but it's hard to muster the enthusiasm. The storms that punctuated our first two months in South East Asia are long gone and it’s very hot, which makes us lazy. At least there are less mosquitoes about.

I’ve been looking forward to New Zealand, and still am, but not like I was. I've grown accustomed to my environment, and the idea of starting over in a different climate is not as appealing as it was three months ago. Off to Gulliver’s, and then Dong Dea Moon. Gulliver’s isn’t as nice as I remember it, but the air conditioning is welcome and the food remains consistent in what’s otherwise an entirely inconsistent state of affairs. Every visit here has revealed a slight change, the destruction of The Hendrix being the most pronounced. Even Dong Dea Moon appears vulnerable. It’s quieter tonight and the lively bartender, capable of removing bottle tops with violent efficiency, is conspicuous by his absence.

The next day we bump into L on the Khao San Road. She went south after we parted company and she'll be flying back to the States in a few days' time. We don’t make any arrangements to meet up for a drink but we do exchange email addresses, and she tells us to look her up should we ever find ourselves in New York. (It will be another five years before we do, by which time we’ll have adjudged the invitation to have expired.)

After tending to business, we take a taxi to a market recommended by F. He bought a fake Bathing Ape polo shirt there, and I figure I might be able to find something similar to replace the items in my wardrobe that are falling apart. No counterfeit Bathing Ape, but I do come away with two Playboy branded polo shirts that will do the job. My desert boots have just about had it too, so I'm going to replace them with a pair of Cuban heels, like the Thai policemen wear, which will cost less than the equivalent of a tenner from a shoe shop down the road.

In the coming days we will revisit Siam Square and the Royal Palace, walk around Suphachalasai Stadium, continue to eat at Wally’s, try out a disappointing Indian restaurant off the Khao San Road, and find a new place to drink called the Banana Leaf. There will be an evening that finishes at the Hole in the Wall, but we give up on Dong Dea Moon when our second night there turns out much like the first. We are marking time. I’m not certain that I want to leave Asia, but I am restless all the same. The weather is just too stifling, not variable enough. What I really want is hard rain. That’s not going to happen – I’d have to wait around for another three months to see any of that. Something's got to give, so it's probably just as well we're leaving.