Homeward Bound
Homeward Bound
The bike is dismantled and in the box. We are coming home on Friday.
I have raised $2,550.00 and there is still time to donate at https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/john-arnold13
In a few days I will finish writing things I never had time for and add some photos etc. The most coherent place to look is: johnarnold2022.blogspot.com
Thanks for your support and encouragement.
Best Wishes
John Arnold
For Sale
For Sale
Sweet Cheeks " Butt Butter " Slightly used but going to a good home. 
Make an offer Tech Dept.
For this price I will be using real butter next time!
Carpe Diem. "Savour the day"
Carpe Diem. "Savour the day"
When Mum and Dad came to Hong Kong I was shocked at how Dad had aged when he came off the plane at Kai Tak Airport. He looked exhausted and not just from the long flight. He had a walking stick and was shuffling along. They stayed a couple of weeks and we went to a Passing Out Parade at the PTS where Sam and I were both instructors and had drinks in the Officer's Mess. Dad's hip clicked every time he moved. It must have been so painful but he never complained. We visited one of my favourite temples in the New Territories, toured around border stations in the closed area, where I had worked, by Wiktor and visited a brass factory where dad spent up large.
We went to Lantau Island with Sam's parents to visit the Po Lin temple and had vegetarian food. Our parents got on well. Sam's father's story is worthy of a book. His parents died during the Japanese occupation and he was the eldest at 15. He would never talk about his experiences either but some brothers went back to China and were lost but he found two after the war. He taught himself English and after the surrender made himself useful to the British forces as an interpreter and rose to become an engineer in the telephone company. Him and dad got on like a house on fire. Fay said dad thought Hong Kong was a highlight of his life although he never told me. He bought a blue silk cotton padded Chairman Mao coat all Chinese wore. They had detachable white collars for washing. He wore it around home and thought he was King Farouk. On their last night in HK dad and I sat around in companionable silence having a whiskey. My parents never told me what to do or tried to change my mind. We knew we were responsible for our own destiny. They didn't need to tell us they loved us and were proud of us. We knew that too.
Margo and I stormed towards Bluff sometimes with Jojo on her electric bike but she blew us off. We stopped in the bushes by the estuary for a pee.
On the run in to Bluff a vehicle stopped and a man wearing his Big Brevet medallion got out. We didn't know him but he and his family offered us hearty congratulations and encouragement. He had just finished. At the end there were other riders already there with their support crew and families. Even tourists were in awe of our efforts and excited. It was impossible not to be happy and excited. It seems unbelievable how far we have ridden. It is a blur. We took photos and I tried to post everyone who offered donations or support and am proud to have raised just over $2,000 for Arthritis NZ. Next time maybe I will be better organized and raise more?
The last time I spoke to my father on the phone he told me he felt like ending his life. He was miserable and in pain constantly. I was shocked and didn't know what to say but suggested he join the RSA bowling Team. My family had shielded me from his condition because how could I possibly help or begin to understand? I learned, during this trip that he had tried to end his life weeks earlier before he did. A few weeks later I made a long trip home for his funeral after waiting days for a flight because the direct flights were only twice a week.
Mum tearfully told us she had begged the doctor to change his medication but it didn't happen and the family doctor couldn't look at her when he came to certify the death.
I spoke to the two ministers who were going to officiate and said perhaps we could talk about mentioning the circumstances of his death but suicide was a crime against God and not spoken of. I never spoke at his funeral but am making amends now. I supported my dear mother. Dad had cleared the ground and at least told me. Mum and Dad were living alone but the last time he saw one sister he asked her to take special care of mum. Of course she would she said, looking after mum in her last years as she still lived in the same home, passing away at 96.
The church was full to overflowing. I never realized Dad had so many friends.
I returned to HK. Ken my best buddy and roommate from Trentham days kindly came down to see me at Wellington Airport but I didn't have the heart to tell him how Dad had died, and as is the way of the world life continued and we soon had our first daughter Jade. I can see my parents in all my children and am very proud of them. I'm looking forward to getting home to see them.
I realise writing this that I am not that much different to my father. We both shared a secret sadness, mine for his loss but his much greater than mine.
This is my tribute to my father. He loved the tales of the Antarctic explorers, Scott and Shackelton and Mawsom (Scott perished the year my father was born. ) My romantic notion is that the Pole was my father's journey's end as the Maori spirit is at the northern end where my journey began. I like to imagine his spirit soaring albatross free over these southern oceans.
This journey has been such a celebration of life. Everyone cycling has been filled with excitement and friendship vigour, determination, steely resolve and above all the joy of life. It makes me glad to be alive surrounded by people I love and who love me.
Thank you for your contributions. Arthritis is a terrible condition as is depression. Talk to people, listen and be kind. I know I'm going to try to be better at those things, thanks to this amazing journey: stitching up the highways of my heart.
Day 30 Mossburn to Bluff
Day 30 Mossburn to Bluff
The last day to complete the Brevet on time.
I haven't been sleeping well. I'm up and down like a demented cuckoo in it's clock with a broken mechanism. I got up at 5 to do some blogging and passed Alistair in the corridor. He was dressed and ready to go. He asked me the time and I told him so he muttered about thinking it was later and went back to bed. I left at first light and was steaming along through the mist which didn't clear until just before Winton 69 kms away. Around the Castle Downs Swamp on a long stretch of road with long grass on the sides a figure appeared out of the grass pushing a bike. It was Margo who I had seen on and off with Kate who is still gamely heading South as I write, nursing a bad knee and thigh. Margo had pushed on past Mossburn and slept in a one person tent. I offered her some barley sugars and we rode together to Winton, she grumbled about hating the mist and cold and wanted to stop and brew up a cup of tea but I bullied her into pushing onto Winton. We chatted and laughed and were doing a great speed. (I averaged 21.9 km/h to Winton, usually managing 11-12) because it was a smooth surface and downhill all the way to the sea. We cruised into Winton hours ahead of my schedule. I anticipated meeting Sam here after she flew into Invercargill and got a rental and came out to see me and pick up my gear. We settled into a big breakfast, I had Eggs Benedict with extra bacon and toast, a milkshake and one then another coffee. Margo ate more.
Food is fuel I can't slow down the eating and had to try at breakfast today to chew slowly. We lazed around texting and chatting then finally roused ourselves and left at 12. While Margo was in the restroom Brad appeared so I told him he had sailed past Margo, who ducked down fearful of being discovered. He looked sheepish when I told him he had been singing at the top of his voice. He said he was a terrible singer. The joy of life!
Margo and I pressed on. The tyres were singing. We got to Wallacetown and were trying to figure out which way to go when a car pulled up. The figure in it looked vaguely familiar. It was Samantha my darling wife come to rescue me. I gave her a big hug then so did Margo because she had heard me talking about her she felt like an old friend. Margo knew my cousin Alistair and Sue living in the old family home at Kikiwa and was friends with the teacher whose class I had spoken to in Paeroa. Kiwis are truly only three steps away from a connection. Sam took the luggage including some of Margo's and we resolved to meet at Bluff. Sam could track our location so knew when to get there. In the cafe one of her friends had texted and told her to get moving- she had been sitting around too long. We pushed on to Bluff all ideas of finishing tomorrow now gone.
Of all dad's friends his old army buddies were the dearest. We always visited and stayed with them if travelling. I remembered staying with the Redpaths just out of Cromwell. The house is still there, I went past it with my wife last year. Behind the house on the hill for water for gold prospecting. It ran miles back into the hills. We went and watched while Mr Redpaths dam it so the water would spill out and irrigate the slopes. The Redpaths were religious and spoke with thee and thou and he read from a huge bible at mealtimes and his three kids and I exchanged glances while our eyes should have been closed. Dad helped him build a straw structure with the tied stooks of wheat and the women watched. It fell down soon after it was done and they had to laugh.
I have a memory of dad lying quietly under willows by the Clutha river, his head in her lap, and she was stroking his hair. I wasn't old and it was such a tender moment and I realized they cared about each other but had so few moments like this because they had,5 crazy kids and were always working. Dad visited Gordon Ham regularly on his farm. He was a champion ploughman and had won the Silver Plough and kept a team of Ayershire horses for show ploughing. At dad's funeral he told me how dad would always have warm food for them when they came back from sentry duty. Cooking was always an issue when near the artillery because firing would blow out the promises. He said when they got to Rome instead of carousing, which they could do anywhere, they went around all the ruins and were blessed by the Pope which pleased dad.
Gordon Middleton had trotter horses and would stay whenever passing through with his horses. Dad loved going to the RSA and we were all proud of our fathers on Anzac Day when platoons of them marched at the War Memorial medals chinking and glinting in the sun then off to the RSA to rejoice and reflect and remember. They shared a bond and every time they put on the uniform they were choosing to risk their lives. Day after day.
Day 29 Queenstown to Mossburn via Walter Peak Station
Day 29 Queenstown to Mossburn via Walter Peak Station
Up before dawn and biked to 1 Mile Reserve to catch the landing craft/ferry to Walter Peak Station. There were 6 of us and Joel the skipper who entertained us about catching a salmon in the lake and smoking it, glacial features in the surrounding hills and the risk of tsunamis in the area because of earthquakes or landslides. The lake 'breathes' rising and falling with different air pressure.
We stormed off the landing craft and 'Darth Vader' (codename) took off on his electric bike. I was behind him getting further back. About 6 kms in I went down and out of a small stream bed and rose back onto the flat. There were cultivated fields of a winter crop of brassicas planted on both sides and a huge, old stag, cast on his back trying to turn himself over. He was snorting and bugling fiercely and I could hear the breathe rushing out of his nostrils.
His hooves were clattering and thumping on the stones as he flailed around trying to turn over. He eventually did then made another furious effort to stand up but it was no good... one of his back legs appeared to be broken and he couldn't stand. The others arrived and were concerned for him and themselves. If he did get up he was potentially dangerous. I called my trusty operations manager, explained the location and situation and she got busy ringing Walter Peak. The others went cautiously past. I stayed around and he calmed down and we looked at each other. I could imagine someone at the Station getting the keys and opening the gun cabinet, getting the bolt and a couple of rounds from another locked place and organizing a vehicle with a winch.
Coffin's poem came to mind again. I looked up the whole poem's lines later.
Once or twice this side of death
Things can make one hold his breath.
From my boyhood I remember
A crystal moment of September.
A wooded island rang with sounds
Of church bells in the throats of hounds.
A buck leaped out and took the tide
With jewels flowing past each side.
With his head high like a tree
He swam within a yard of me.
I saw the golden drop of light
In his eyes turned dark with fright.
I saw the forest's holiness
On him like a fierce caress.
Fear made him lovely past belief,
My heart was trembling like a leaf.
He leans towards the land and life
With need above him like a knife.
In his wake the hot hounds churned
They stretched their muzzles out and yearned.
They bayed no more, but swam and throbbed
Hunger drove them till they sobbed.
Pursued, pursuers reached the shore
And vanished. I saw nothing more.
So they passed, a pageant such
As only gods could witness much,
Life and death upon one tether
And running beautiful together.
I stayed a while and he calmed down. He was old and had gnarly, uneven antlers, one or two broken off. He had 15 or so points. We both knew the race was over and I rode off listening for the crack of the rifle and the echo but it must have come later. Riders on an afternoon boat told me they saw his carcass on the back of a vehicle.
I'm not trying to be pretentious using poetry. Coleridge wrote that poetry was simply 'The best words in the best order.' We learned poetry at school and lines stayed with. Steve Barnett, an old school buddy, rattled off Hopkins 'Spring' last time I saw him.
I carried on up the valley and stopped to put on my coat in the next valley. The stags were roaring at each other in the scattered bush on the other side.
I stopped for a photo of this stone cottage and just down the road ran across Val and Brent who were remarkably calm considering they had two ruined tyres and were miles from anywhere. I offered them a couple of CO2 cans but the tyres were beyond repair. Val had biked to the station and organized for the wheels to be picked up and fixed in Queenstown. They slept in the van and offered me a coffee and something to eat!
Brent explained the stone building was the cookhouse and the original station house was in a copse of trees nearby. At the top of the Von Hill the first and only rider I saw all day passed me at 710 metres elevation. I had a two hour head start but he reeled me in after 332 kms in two- travelling twice as fast as me. O to be young again but slow and steady works for me.
The road became easy and I cracked along at 20+kmh for sometime on a smooth surface. Today was 103 kms of gravel road and tracks. After a bite to eat in the shade of a hut I hit the rough. The road became corrugated. There were basically four tracks of deep gravel and three lanes of less stone but deep corrugations. The traffic use the centre lane for the driver's side wheels and either the other track depending on which way you were going. It was hot and dusty. For four hours there had been no vehicles and now vehicles carrying boats or trailers or caravans were roaring past regularly creating huge clouds of dust which obscured them the moment they passed and choked you for kilometers. I tried counting poles but gave up because it was too depressing. The straights were long: 20 + poles.
It's easier to count the metal anti-possum bands on them, but there were so many they just blurred into the distance. 20+ poles at 80 metres apart was 1.6 kms. There would be the long straight then a slight bend then another straight. The corrugations were rattling my saddle which bounced off a couple of times. My wrists were numb, my bum felt it was getting a steady going over with a cheese grater on some block of parmesan. It was dangerous trying to swap lanes because the tracks were so full of stone every time I looked futilely for a better line or smoother piece the bike would lurch, or slow, buried in the kitty litter trying to slide the front wheel out. My neck which had been fine for a couple of days began pounding again. (A couple of my fingers are still numb on Tuesday after finishing yesterday.)
I looked for excuses to dismount: fiddle with straps, look at the map, drain the last drops from the water bottles but it was all useless. Winston Churchill had said never, never, never give up but the reality is different. I swear if the devil himself had come past in a golf cart or flaming chariot I would have jumped on without a glance at the fine print on the contract I would have to sign.
Eventually the surface got better but then there were more hills sweeping way into the distance. I eventually reached Mossburn and checked into the Railway Hotel. It was charming. The laundry was free and they provided a free help yourself breakfast of toast and cereals with fresh milk and my wodge of Vegemite.
I took a photo in the bar of the locals to let the family I was safe and rehydrating then realized they weren't locals but the other cyclists who had been on the barge and looked totally different showered and changed and relaxed. I felt and looked liked something the cat dragged in. Four of us had dinner together and laughed and laughed sharing stories about the ride and holes on a cliff I thought were where mad rabbit holes dug down and out through the cliff. They enter Martin nests. Alistair and Andy, neighbors in Paramatta talked about a stoat they had seen on a ride carrying a young stoat in it's fangs and Jojo mama got cramp and wobbled up and shuffled around.
They told me we could officially make the 30 day cut off by finishing before 9 am the day after next and I resolved to do that because it was still 135.89 kms to Bluff. Lovely wife Sam was coming to care for me and we had arranged for her to meet at Winton pick up my bags. I would cycle to Invercargill then rise early and finish the next day before 9 am.
Dad never talked about the war much except for the pleasant aspects: climbing the pyramids, the wail of the calls to prayer, the filthy flies on meat and dusty markets. He loved the brass work and brought home a howitzer round with a handle and map and statistics on the NZ battles, which he polished now and then. He mentioned driving an officer around in Florence or Milan and going to the opera, getting thrown cartons of cigarettes by Field Marshal Montgomery somewhere in Italy while they were digging out a truck mired in the mud, the aerial bombardment of the Abbey at Monte Casino, a soldier getting killed when peace was declared in Tripoli, hit by someone firing their weapon in celebration, stukas screaming down attacking them, floating in the Dead Sea, an American GI getting his hand blown off as dad poured him some vino while they sheltered under a truck in a mortar attack. The shrapnel had whistled past his ear. His disgust at some NZ soldiers hanging their prisoners on the telegraph poles. I guess every day on earth was a blessing after that.
When I came home from HK with Sam to be married I said Sandy and I had changed trains in Foggia and he casually mentioned they spent a bitter winter there in the rain and mud. He loved sleeping under the olive trees and Fay's first name is Olive. He bought an old coffee percolator with a glass top which bubbled and hissed like a geyser. I don't know if he actually ground the coffee beans, they seemed to stew for hours. He loved eating dates. He always hated sea travel and had been seasick both to and from the war.
Mum had told us about the terrible conditions they endured, not enough to eat or keep properly warm, and attributed his arthritis in the hip partially to those conditions, but never mentioned the tank being blown up until after he was gone.
Most of the souvenirs he had got went down on a ship which was torpedoed but Mum had a tin box of all his letters home to her, which I Ionged to read, but never did because they disappeared when he died. When I came home to get married he was retired, still strong and lively but slowing down. He used to skite about a party trick of picking up a matchbox doing press ups with one arm, either arm, but had now given up gardening.
He still pottered around in his daggy old army trousers with the belt thrown carelessly around the middle but never laced property. My sisters were mortified when he turned up in them, skinny legs sticking out the bottom, to take Sam and the family for a ride to the beach at Rarangi but he didn't care.
On my first leave after three years he had slowed more. He moved slowly and couldn't walk far. We spent a pleasant time in NZ then went back to HK for another three years and Mum and Dad promised to visit.
Day 28 Wanaka to Queenstown Continued
Day 28 Wanaka to Queenstown Continued
It turned out although I could see Queenstown it was further than I imagined. After Arrowtown we followed a forest trail, up and down and in the wrong direction. The signage was hopeless, it appeared at the Frankton bridge some wag had deliberately changed the arrow to take us over to the other side so we would end up seeing Queenstown but not get there. I stopped for refreshments at a brewery on the waterfront with a dazzling display of beers with silly names. I just pointed vaguely and said I'll have that one. Bad choice. It turned up in another thimble so I took a carafe of water, bowled it and the beer and moved on. Krystal and Paul had organised a lovely convenient motel with lake views run by an immigrant who was also a petty bureaucrat. The owner lived off shore. Could I do some washing. My most pressing concern. He refused to let me charge it on a credit card and give me coins but dangled a bag full of coins in my face. Harsh words were exchanged and he relented. Traipsing up town to find a cash machine in my state wasn't an option. I got to my room, tipped everything out and had a shower. The lake was sparkling then there was a knock on the door. He told me I couldn't do any washing because it was now after 6 and he was going home. He took me down to show me the laundry and explained I would disturb the guests, (who all appeared to be in cafes and bars quaffing drinks or swimming and sunbathing. He was inflexible and wouldn't let me stay in the room until I had finished. I admit I may have raised my voice but the main reason to stay there was to wash clothes. In the manner of all small minded people with the keys to the manor I knew he had the whip hand and I was defeated. We both knew it. I mumbled about staying somewhere else and he encouraged me to. Defeated and dejected I found the 24 hrs laundromat and did it myself but at least I won't be getting boils on my bum and the view was superb.
There is plenty of time to think when you are pedalling all day. The world appears to be rolling past me and I am on a gigantic treadmill when the country is wide and open, or the tar seal is a smooth weir and I am approaching from below; looking down the road water speeds up and blurs and seems to burst into spray and bubbles, an optical trick I know but weird, like how the wagon wheels always spun the wrong way in movies.
You can think and observe the country if the surface or just hang on for grim death and concentrate on staying upright on the tricky gravel or gnarly tracks, or concentrate on getting left when vehicles roar past, or count down on the long, slow stretches and you are tired and want to finish. How many powerpoles on the straight in front: 19 at 80 metres apart?. You know that because you've already worked that out on the tacho.
How many lots of 10 kms, or 33 is a third of 100, so you are coming up to 50 kms which is halfway on a 100 k day. My best place is thinking of home and family. That helps the miles tick by..
Dad was quirky. He would wear a shirt inside out if he put it on wrong. He hated crossed knives. He snapped the big newspapers like a whip cracking to iron out the wrinkles and would sit with his feet nearly in the fire studying the paper, horn rimmed glasses perched on his nose, studying it for hours. He sneezed so loudly you could hear him on Ward St which embarrassed my sisters because the two spinsters in charge of the girls college lived on our boundary and their windows must have rattled. If the fire siren went off he bundled us into the car and we were off looking for excitement.
He was very gentlemanly and treated women with respect and blew Carolyn and I up once because I called her a mole. He muttered darkly and told us to look it up in the gigantic Websters which had pride of place in the sitting room. Mole, moll...a gangsters moll. What was wrong with a gangster having a girlfriend I wondered? He was a crackshot and had won a cup before the war scoring a 'possible' the highest possible score, in a shooting competition. When the starlings got too bad in the roof he would get the .22 out and shoot them out of the walnut trees which would get you arrested nowdays. He would take us to the RSA and we would sit in the car waiting and he always brought out a glass of lemonade. He loved a good burn off and would make a huge bonfire and we had a stuffed effigy of Guy Fawkes on top. Bad form really. His mother was a protestant and father a Catholic, rare in those days, and the boys in the family were baptized as Catholic but the girls Anglican.
He invited the JW caller in and they had religious discussions and there were always Watchtower magazines lying around and ministers from different denominations spoke at his funeral. He subscribed to Reader's Digest magazine and abridged books, and Time Life magazine and National Geographic and so we learned what was going on in the world. He recited facts from the AA strip maps when we went for Sunday Drives and roared at us if we talked while the BBC news was on as we were eating.
One sister said she didn't realize how nice fathers could be until she went on a school trip to Wellington and saw how gentle the father was with his kids. That had never occurred to me. My overall impression was of him always working but carrying a quiet, unspoken sadness and reserve.
Cardrona
Day 28 Cardrona
"Dreaming while dawn's left hand was in the sky,
I heard a voice within the temple cry,
Awake my little ones and fill life's cup,
For once drunk it is forever dry."
Rubyait of Omar Khayan
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| Dawn. |
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| Obligatory shot at Cardrona pub. |
Early start and pleased to be up at Cardrona, 556 metres and 26 kms done in just over two hours. 444 m to the top. The valley was 400-600 m wide but is narrowing. There were fields of green lucerne, high in protein, roots searching down 20 metres for water although these were being irrigated. I worked school holidays in a plant using oil to dry it, trucks harvesting it 24 hrs a day. Dad used to say grapes should be grown in Marlborough long before they were. He has seen similar conditions in Italy and loved talking about vino. Lucerne must be break fed to stock. If they eat too much they can bloat up and die and farmers need to knife their stomachs to allow the gas to escape.
There are hawks everywhere both dead and alive. They are so ungainly taking off and preoccupied with their meal of roadkill they react slowly to the traffic and must at least get airborne because their carcasses are usually off the road, hit in mid-air.
Day 28 Wanaka, Cadrona, Queenstown
Day 28 Wanaka, Cadrona, Queenstown.
I'm up at 5 and take my little pack from the office to the shiny, new communal kitchen. Sam had alerted the office that I was traveling light and they've given me coffee and tea sachets and milk and a cup but in the kitchen there is no microwave or pots and pans or utensils. I have the option of beans out of a can or muesli with milk eaten out of the plastic packet so it's muesli for breakfast.
I have to climb to 1000 metres which sounds intimidating but yesterday climbed 800 metres and did an easy day of 78 kms. I rode from Hawea with Kate and Margo who camped at Wonderland and although they started 2 hrs later, had caught me by lunch at the general store.
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| Kate, Margo and the other J Arnold |
We got on another beautiful trail beside the rushing outlet from the dam wall and they were pushing hard, zooming along the dusty path, in and out of pine forest and stopping for lots of photos. Margot met a friend halfway, another J Arnold, and we rode a bit further then they burned me off. It's not much fun eating dust anyway so I just tootled along. The photos say it all. The weather is sublime.
Wanaka is getting like Queenstown. Flash apartments with lots of glass and wide balconies and lake and mountain views. I can't find any locals to ask directions and the information was closed so I'm looking at all these bars full of lively, snappily dressed young uns, quaffing refreshments and I must admit I look pretty disreputable having not shaven since Blenheim, dusty, sweaty. Suddenly I was greeted like a long lost friend by Mike and Stephanie who I had briefly spoken to on the Hawea lookout although I couldn't quite remember where I had seen them, I've talked to dozens of people and was so hot. They bought me a beer and were so enthusiastic about what I was doing and were considering doing something similar. It was happy hour and so pleasant. Some people you meet you feel like you have known your whole life. We swapped life stories and I told them some of the funny things that had happened. I told them I was thinking of writing a book about my journey and father's arthritis and linking it to this journey and revisiting all the old places and calling it, "Stitching the Highways of the Heart" because of all the zig zagging across the roads, driving the Official tracker crazy, and making my route a mess. We talked our family tragedies and I had a senior moment, it was so pleasant and they were so kind.
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| Wanaka refreshments with Mike and Stephanie. |
My father was born in 1912, only 4 when his three brothers went to WW1. Dad was 33 when he returned from the war and 42 when I was born. He was on the first ship home after the war ended, leaving from Tripoli. They had fought all the way up Italy and liberated Florence. His mother had watched Rory leave on his horse, Kowhai, and waved back at her from the end of the valley before he and Kowhai disappeared. She knew she would never see him again but was resolved to see her younger son when he returned. Apparently she was a tall woman and walked with crutches in later life. Her daughter, Kath, looked after her and never married. She saw Dad and passed away soon after. Of Dad's three brothers in WWI. Rory died, Dick came back stone deaf, his son went on to become a professor of history at Victoria university and wrote several books, and Brian, I learned recently cleared out, abandoning his new ride and was never heard from much again. We have no idea where he died or if he ever had children. He had said to his sister if he stayed he would murder his father. He kept in loose touch with another sister, Norah, who lived most of her life in London, England, including all through the Blitz. She had returned to NZ a couple of times but found it too provincial. Mum and Dad settled on the farm. Dad's payout from his war service gave him just enough money to buy a car and they went to work.
They were lucky in many respects because the Korean War came along and wool prices skyrocketed as the UN forces needed warm clothes for fighting in the bitterly cold conditions. Wool fetched one pound for a pound of wool. They picked all the fleece snagged on the barbed wire fences and made some money. One of mum's younger brothers fought in Korea. Ironically one of Sam's uncles. Saam Suk, third younger brother, had been deposed during the Cultural Revolution and exiled to primitive labour camps in Qing Hai, near Tibet, but during the Korean War he was forced to drive lorries supplying the Chinese troops who had joined the fighting on the side of the North.
I had always wondered why the family left the farm, they had four children, by then, I remember when Fay was born because I sat out at the gate and looked out down the valley where she had just gone. The woman employed to look after us came out and got me, carrying a teatowel. Apparently I cried so much Dad took me around the farm all day with him. In those days women spent 7 or ten days, in the maternity home. I'm not quite sure. It was probably the only break a lot of the poor women ever had. Mum still had no electricity although they did have a kerosene fridge. I had always assumed mum wanted to shift, she was teaching my older sisters through the correspondence school.
She had apparently said to my cousin on Dad's side about her own mother that although her mother had a fine education at Nelson College, passing the 7th form, she had never learned how to not have babies. She had 12, mum the oldest. Mum always regretted not having the opportunity for more schooling, having to leave at 13 and bring up her younger siblings.
Mum had said that dad was terribly depressed after the war and would sometimes not speak for days. There were few visitors, shearing gangs twice a year. She had said he spent a lot of time talking to a refugee who worked for the County killing rabbits which were of plague proportions. The man had been an inmate of Auschwitz and had the tattooed number to prove it. He and dad shared a common bond, they knew a bit about suffering.
It wasn't until after he died I learned he had been in action, probably at Monte Casino, where the NZ Armoured Division lost several tanks attempting to support the Maori battalion who had taken the Railway Station, a vital link to securing access beyond Casino towards Rome. He was a tank driver and the tank had been knocked out and one of the crew killed. Mum alluded to a breakdown in her personal story for a book on our family history. Dad had a furlough to Palestine but only told us how he had enjoyed floating in the Dead Sea. The Maori Battalion were decimated and had to retreat.
The NZ Division lost 343 deaths and over 600 wounded. Sam and I visited the Abbey and the War Cemetery. The Abbey which dad had been into soon after the Germans left has been rebuilt and the cemetery is beautifully kept. I have a painted plate Dad souvenired from that Casino on my wall.
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| Roadkill. Possums are a pest. |
Day 27 Makarora to Wanaka via Lake Hawea
Day 27 Makarora to Wanaka via Lake Hawea
There was a Maori whakatoki on the information display at Pleasant Flat explaining the greenstone trails "Seek the treasure you value most dearly; if you bow your head, let it be to a lofty mountain."
Early start again this morning into the rising dawn, mountains still shrouded in mist just above the bush line. I'm over the Southern Divide so the rivers are flowing south and east out to the Pacific Ocean.
There was a huge salmon in the river I watched for about 20 minutes in a pool in the river, rising and feeding and circling around in a lazy beat. I took a photo just as it broke the surface and captured the glint of the setting sun. I want to come back with Sam and the kids and grandkids for a Southern vacation.
Annette opened early for me at the Makarora Country Cafe after seeing me at COVID Corner last night and cooked up this sumptuous feast. I had asked if they did chicken livers. She shouted to Rachel the chef," Could you whip out, kill a chook and rip the kidneys out of it for me?" (No liver for brekkie).
The stags in the high fenced field are bugling and wild stags, miles away up in the tops are calling back. The black Angus Weiner bulls are still nestled with their mum's. They'll be making lots of noise soon when they get separated from mothers.
Day 26 Haast to Makarora
Day 26 Haast to Makarora
That irreverent, lapsed or ex-communicated, ex altar boy Brother Alp has just sent me a file but I can't open it. He has a sacrilegious take on making the sign of the cross, "spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch" I am forever losing or forgetting things; gloves, glasses, guide book, mask etc and have been thinking one would come in handy for me. Spectacles (sun, reading, long distance) don't need to worry about the next item as wriggling around on a nasty bike seat all day. The guide route instructions are invaluable so I could call them 'instructables' then 'maskes' and 'cardses' credit card and mask. Of course there is also water and vaccine pass and bum butter. All vitals.
It was nice to be hear from him. When the phone pings I usually use it as an incentive and say to myself I'll have a look at the 25 k mark or the top of the next ridge. Txt if u like I may even send you a personal photo. It's pouring outside. The third spot of rain since starting. I don't want to go but it's an easy day in only 79 kms and a 560 m climb to Makarora. I can't believe I can ever think that is easy. I'm getting fitter.
It was raining hard in the night and drizzling when I went down for noodles. I fluffed around blogging and hoping it would stop and it did so after a proper breakfast with coffee at the local shop I finally got mobile at 1100 and after putting the rain gear on and off a couple of times it cleared. I made good time to the Gates of Haast which is about 100 metres.
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| They even tell you where there is cellphone reception. |
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| BJ a traffic controller. |
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| Stuart Rees from Gore taking photos at the Haast Pass 578 metres. |
Dylan and I had a long video call and he eventually managed to explain to me again how to set heart rate, altitude, distance, time onto the screen. In my defence it has 5 buttons and a hair trigger of a screen and it took me a long time to figure out if I pressed the buttons or sometimes grazed the screen. The altitude is useful for a morale boost. Cardrona in two days is a 1,100 metre climb so knowing where you are is a morale boost.
There is a selection of photos; the riverbed at Roaring Billy Falls ..all flat river rock, a tutu bush... highly toxic even in honey if bees have been harvesting it, cattle stop signs (they are nothing to do with cattle there but cattle will not cross over a grate with open space under, they might get stuck!) Baffling for tourists.
There are photos of workers feeding fibre optic cable through 800 metre sections.
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| Vijay Singh laying fibre, from Palmerston North working 12 days straight then flown home for two days then back at it. |
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| Steve and Mitch feeding the Telco wire. |
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| Christine from Christchurch who had flown to Queenstown and was inspecting the road for the day. |
There are photos of a gang of Fulton Hogan so busy tidying up after inspecting a bridge they had no time to talk and others inspecting the end of a bridge tail someone had smacked up. Haast is busy with workers when the weather is good and probably busier when there are slips.
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| The road men used to always be leaning on shovels or brooms and there would be a thermette burning twigs and boiling water for teabreaks. Dad would always be omment on what a great job they had. There is a joke about a roadgang writing to Wellington for more shovel and broom handles years ago when MOW was a govt department. Weeks later they finally got a reply," Sorry shovel handles out of stock. Lean on each other." |
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| Rock art on a log like Tibetan rock mounds at a waterfall. Two Kiwis gave me beautiful golden peaches there. |
The pub is closed at Makarora and the locals offered me a free beer. They were drinking on the roadside at the 'Covid Inn'. It was warm and pleasant. The manager brought me four slices of bread and a great wodge of Vegemite for me to toast.
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| Sunset over my chalet. No towels here just a sheet. I should have used the sheet instead of a scrap of muslin cloth. There was no laundry powder, my towel was in with the wash which didn't get washed just wet because it was busted, I discovered after forking out Two $2.00 coins into the machine. |
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