Since leaving the Northland, the weather has been as mixed as one might expect in Scotland, with the nights now so autumnally chilly that we spend most of them, thermal-adorned, firmly clutching our newly purchased hot water bottles. But, whether rain or shine, New Zealand has been continuing to reveal itself as the postcard-perfect beauty that we glimpsed during our first week, and since then we have been working our way down through the rest of the North Island. Over the course of two weeks we headed to the Coromandel with its breathtaking beaches and hippy towns, and from there drove South to visit the real Hobbiton (Matamata) and Lake Taupo, out of which we did the 20km Tongariro Alpine Crossing and climbed live volcano Mt. Ngauruhoe, better known to most as Mount Doom from Lord of the Rings. (In case you hadn’t managed to work out for yourself that Phil and I are fairly passionate fans of Lord of the Rings, I admit now that we are and suggest that those at home should expect a trilogy marathon on our return having now seen the incredible places of beauty in which these movies came to life.) Next came the delightful art deco charms of Napier, sun swept wineries in Hawke’s Bay and finally ending up in windy Wellington.
Wellington is a surprising capital, for though it lies, essentially, in the middle of the two islands, it is really no bigger than a large town. But what Wellington lacks in size she certainly makes up for in quirky character, and the culture, creativity and personality of this place undoubtedly pack the big-city punches. And it seems that the best way to experience it is to be found, unexpectedly, in a mug. Coffee is a Wellington institution and considered as of much importance as the art galleries, museums and other worthwhile sights, maybe even a little more. Much of our experience of the city came from selecting where to have our next cup, and the hours that followed spent reading, chatting, observing and, of course, drinking the crème de la crème of coffee. (As far as I am concerned, Wellington is home to the world’s best coffee, and I will believe it so until I taste otherwise.)
Scattered amongst the coffee houses are old-fashioned cinemas, artsy boutiques, beautiful bookstores and colourful houses that speckle the city’s many hills. There are more vintage shops than you could shake a stick at, and I am forced to resist the urge to ditch my jeans and jumper for something to satisfy the fashion-deprived art student within. Oh how I miss my wardrobe and not having to adhere to the 25kilo rule. The only one of us getting any kind of a makeover was Gooch the Uke, who we took her to be restrung at “Alistair’s Music” on cool Cuba Street, only to discover that Alistair was, as well as being exceptionally helpful, from Dumbarton. So some Glasgow reminiscing was had while Gooch traded in her nylon’s for something a bit less plinky-plonky, and the world proved itself, once again, to be not quite as big as it sometimes feels after six months of searching.
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