And finally...

Before

After

Welcome to my last blog. I had intended to complete my scribblings on my antipodean adventures, but for reasons I shall explain I have changed my mind.

Writing the blog has forced a bit if discipline into my writing and I reckon I have a fund of about 150,000 words now to draw on should I complete my 75,000 word book. To date though there is little interest from the publishing world in a book about some middle aged bloke who takes a year out to do some exciting things. The rejection letters I receive from agents say roughly the same thing -' we feel it will be difficult to place a book of this kind given the current constraints of the market'. Without the hope of being published I need to use the time I have for writing to focus on projects that are more likely to bear fruit. For example, I am in the process of preparing a crime story for submission to a magazine called 'Crimewave'. Not all is lost though with regard to the book and a change of strategy is needed. I am now approaching publishers directly, or more specifically new publishers, as they offer most hope given their need to find new authors.

On a positive note, I recently published on here the first 10,000 words of said book. The same text was then submitted to Hull University as the final part of my Creative Writing Degree. The submission was well received and the mark I obtained was more than sufficient to gain me an award of First Class Honours. I'm not sure what doors such a degree might open, but it looks good on a covering letter when approaching publishers.

Apart from watching the dire World Cup, a lot of my time recently has been taken up with very pleasurable research. The terms of being given a place on their playwright course by Hull Truck Theatre are such that I have until the end of August to submit a play to them to consider and give me feedback on. Just as you can't write without reading so you can't create a play without going to the theatre. Thus, I have been cramming more theatre trips than usual into my schedule. The last was to see 'Cooking with Elvis' at Hull Truck. The advertising blurb didn't make the play sound very appealing, but it was one of the best and the funniest plays I have seen. A great script and a fantastic cast. If you live in or around Hull I urge you to catch this one before it goes. The play closes on Saturday 10th June.

I have also been paying visits to libraries and museums to research my own play. Originally one of the central characters was to be the spirit of a Native American. To create more local interest I have now set my play in Brough, on the shores of the Humber. In AD 71 the Roman Army crossed the Humber and settled in what was they called Petuaria. My new character is a rather randy old chap (well he's not had sex for nearly 2,000 years) called Marcus Ulpius Ianuarius, or Mikey to his mates. In real life Marcus was the magistrate for Petuaria. I am looking forward to bringing Mikey back to life over the next few weeks as I work on my play.

Looking back on the things I have been fortunate to do over the past year it is impossible to pick out a favourite. So many nice memories linger in my mind - the gentle mountain gorillas, the day on The Nile, walking up the Fox Glacier, climbing Sydney Harbour Bridge and of course doing the thing I always said I would never do - the bungee jump.

Do I have any more big adventures planned? Well, not on the scale of my trips to Africa, Australia and New Zealand. My cancelled trip to Hong Kong and Vietnam has left me 2 countries short of my target of visiting 10 countries that are new to me. To correct this I am taking a trip with my two sons next month. We are flying to Copenhagen, having a day out by rail in Malmo and taking the train for a stay in Hamburg. That way I add Denmark and Sweden to my list of 'new' countries.I also have a yen to travel coast to coast across the USA next year.

I am looking forward to cycling from coast to coast across England at the end of August. Following my collapse during the half marathon I have begun to cycle more and run less. It is really good fun and is so much kinder to my knees. I am drooling over a new bike in the local cycle shop.

I was asked recently what I thought was different about me following my year off. I concluded that I was less tolerant. The best thing about my life now is getting up in the morning and being the boss of me. I don't answer to anyone. In a perverse way, having more time has made me appreciate it even more. In the words of The Desiderata, I avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. I also avoid situations that I think will be boring or tedious. I seek out situations that are exciting or which I will learn from. That makes me sound very selfish and self-centred, but I would like to believe that I am simply focussed on making the most of my time on this wonderful planet. Twenty three years ago I had been married for just 5 months when my wife was involved in a dreadful road accident that left her scarred for life and forced her to give up nursing. I learned then that what seems important one second is irrelevant the next. Life can change in the blink of an eye. It is a lesson I have never forgotten. I don't need a heart attack or a cancer scare to remind me to cherish my life.

What has definitely changed is there is less of me and what remains is much fitter and active. I owe it mostly to Tesco Diets, an online slimming and fitness guide. Every week for 18 months I have been weighing in and leaving some comment about how the week has gone. In return I receive an email of support and advice from a nutritionist. Of course, there's more to it than that, but those weekly weigh-in have motivated me to keep going.

I lost a lot of weight and got fitter just to undertake my gap year. Since returning from New Zealand I have been able to lose more weight and train more often. I have reached my goal, which was to lose 3 stones. Tesco seem to be very proud of what I have done (as with most slimming clubs the majority of the clientele are ladies and male losers are rarer) and have made me a 'success story', which affords me free lifetime membership of Tesco Diets. They have also invited me for an all expenses paid day in London for a photo-shoot as one of seven big fat losers. I am quite stunned and thrilled by this.

Finally, thank you to those that have taken the time to follow my inane ramblings on here. If I have left any loose ends or you have any questions please leave a comment or email me at bryan.moiser@googlemail.com.

Live long and prosper,

Bryan and Wainwright.

Waitangi Day (Part 3)

A warm welcome - the young girls in the front row were from various backgrounds. Two of them were English and had only been in NZ for a year. During that time they had learned about Maori culture to then point where they were confident members of this group. In many way ways that is what Waitangi Day is all about.
My new brothers and sisters

Making our way onto the treaty ground I was drawn by the sound of singing and guitars that led me to a large group of Maoris in traditional costumes. They appeared to be suffering from a collective personality disorder. One minute the group were singing melodically, all warm and inviting. The next they were all making threatening gestures and poking their tongues out at me.

The women in particular fascinated me. Maybe it was their sheer beauty or maybe I was simply transfixed by the skilful way they swung their poi balls in time to the music. By the way, ‘poi balls’ is not a rude euphemism, even if they do always appear in pairs. They are balls held together by a piece of cord and swung in rhythmic and sometimes complicated patterns.

As my love affair with the Maori blossomed it was not enough to see them, I wanted to be one. So when the leader of the group invited people to join them on stage to sing and dance I was up there quicker than you can say ‘Waitangi Day’. Mercifully, the singing wasn’t very testing as it was more of a chanted melody and the dance steps were simple enough even for my two left size twelves. Sadly, I didn’t receive any offers of marriage from the beautiful women, but as the men shook my hand and thanked me for joining them I felt a little bit more Maori than I had at the start of the day.

My eagerness to join my new tribe combined with my English reserve robbed me of a one-off opportunity. I returned to my place on the grass in front of the stage and about 10 minutes later the group made a further invitation – they wanted men to join them in the Haka, the traditional Maori dance. The most famous exponents on the Haka are the All Blacks, the New Zealand Rugby Union team, as they perform it to frighten the crap out of their opponents before every match. Theirs is just one version of the dance, each tribe having its own rendition of the thigh slapping, eye bulging, tongue poking ritual.

I desperately wanted to join my new brothers in performing this iconic war dance. But, having already been on stage once, I didn’t want to appear as though I was hogging the limelight and foolishly I stayed put and allowed other middle aged men to steal the show. It was near the start of our trip and I reassuringly told myself that there would be another opportunity. There wasn’t.

After a wander around the treaty grounds and visiting the Treaty House, Pete and I made our way back to our car and drove further along the shore to our rendezvous with Dan, the kayak man.

Dan was a very slim, twenty-something, laid back and affable Kiwi who prepared us for the first of our New Zealand activities. We were joined by a young, Irish girl, whose name I could never catch. Sioboleenough, or something like that. She was 14 months into her world tour, having just spent 6 months in Australia and was about due to head over to South America next.

Suitably instructed and kitted out, the four of us took two double kayaks out into the gentle waters of the bay in the late afternoon sunshine. Our destination was a point about a mile distant where we beached the kayaks and then made a steep trek up through the woods. Waiting for us was Lindon, his dog and his beautiful vineyard.

What followed was an idyllic evening of wine tasting, cheese and biscuits and Lindon’s charming company as the sun set over the rows of vines around us and the bay beneath us. The wine was exquisite, although the vineyard was too small to make enough for export. One of the ‘must-sees’ Pete and I had excluded from our trip was the Marlborough wine region on South Island. Our hour or so with Lindon in his beautiful part of the land made up for the loss.

Lindon explained that this had once been Maori land but they found the soil too poor to produce crops. It was, however, perfect for growing vines and had been bought from the Maori for just two dollars and a couple of blankets. This information tested my loyalties. I liked Lindon and his wine, but here was a living example of the exploitation of my Maori brothers. I was very tempted to begin a protest march around the vines and maybe even crush the odd grape in defiance. Instead I reverted to being a British tourist and followed Lindon into his wine store where he did me a very good deal on a couple of bottles of delicious Pinot Noir.

The Final Challenge

There were more entrants than I had imagined for yesterday's Humber Bridge Half Marathon - just over 2,000. It was hot even before we began the 13 mile gruelling run and contestants sheltered in the shade around the start point.

I got off to a good start, maybe a little too fast, but I had trained for 3 months for this and was feeling confident. That confidence waned as I hauled myself up the first of the hills at about 4 miles. My legs began to feel tired and the temperature was rising.

I reached half-way at just under an hour and was on target for the 2 hour finish I had set myself.

As predicted, the ninth mile was torture. An undulating mile long climb, it tested my stamina to the limit. Many people began to walk. I just pushed on, knowing that if I stopped I would never get going again. Finally, the haul was over and I reached the 10 mile marker. Just three miles to go. What could go wrong?

The heat and the climbs had sapped me and as I reached the final mile I was running on sheer will power. There were just 7 minutes until the 2 hour mark, so it was obvious I was not going to reach my target. Finishing became my objective even though my body screamed at me to stop this madness. I pushed on.

Less than half a mile from the finish was when it happened. I became light headed and then bang! Down I went. Heat exhaustion had taken me.

I don't remember falling. It was as if I had been shot. I couldn't move a muscle. There were people all around me. For some reason I thought I was surrounded by police officers and had been arrested. I began to panic and struggled to breathe.

An ambulance crew arrived and I heard calming, reassuring voices. They strapped me to a board and put me in the ambulance. Hands were all over me - attaching electrodes, inserting oxygen tubes, taking blood, fixing me to a drip. I am fortunate to have been healthy all my life. This was a new and very frightening experience. I know it is a cliché, but I didn't know what day it was. I struggled to remember but it was no good.

My condition stabilised, we made the journey to Hull Royal where I spent the afternoon on a drip and gradually got better.

The local newspaper reports that the race took place on the hottest day of the year, with temperatures peaking at 28 degrees.

So, a task failed. There are other half marathons but I have no intention of entering them. 10k's on cool days for me in the future.

Yet it wasn't all failure. The race epitomised what my gap year has been about. I have been to wonderful places and done exciting things. Wherever I have gone though it has always been the kindness and generosity of people that has shone through. The fact that I am well enough to be typing this is testimony to the legion of people who helped me yesterday. Some of those who came to my aid must have been runners who rather than push on to the finish gave up their race to help me. When I was released from hospital, perhaps a little foolishly, I decided to take a taxi to recover my car.

On arrival back at the bridge I found the field where cars had been parked was secure. There was a note on my windscreen with a number to ring to have the gate opened. As I waited for the gate to be unlocked I was approached by a man and his wife. He turned out to be a retired police officer from a southern force. He was concerned for my safety and insisted that he drove me home whilst his wife followed in their car. I protested but gave in as I knew he was right and I wasn't really fit to drive.


For me, that is what travel and maybe life is about - the total and unexpected kindness of strangers.

It ain't half hot mum

Tomorrow, Sunday 27th June, looks like being one of the hottest days of the year so far in England. Temperatures are forecast to reach 26 degrees Celsius. That's just perfect for drinking cold beer and having a barbie whilst England take on the mighty Germans once more in the World Cup. For me it is a disaster.

In the morning I face the last of my 20 challenges as my gap year officially draws to a close. The challenge is to run a half marathon (13 miles/21km) in under 2 hours. To achieve this I have entered the Humber Bridge Half Marathon.

My training has gone well. I ran the Humber Bridge 10k in just over 50 minutes 3 weeks ago. That's by far my personal best and 6 minutes faster than the same race last year. My training runs have also gone well, the longest being 12 miles, which I ran in 1 hour 45 minutes. So, on paper, I am on target to complete the final challenge successfully. The problem, of course, is the weather. My 10k race was run on a cool day with a lovely light drizzle to keep my temperature down. Once the heat begins to rise the running gets more and more like moving through treacle.

All I can do is turn up for the 10.30 am start fuelled up on pasta, porridge and lucozade sport and enjoy the run, whatever the outcome. Just to finish will be a significant achievement for someone like me who was not built by my creator for long distance anything. I have even slimmed down further for this race and I am now at the target I have been working towards for 18 months. If I don't make it tomorrow then it won't be for the lack of proper training and diet. Maybe being fit enough and healthy enough to enter the race was the real challenge. But a time of 1 hour 59 minutes and 59 seconds will make my gap year complete.

Waitangi Day (Part 2)

As Pete and I drove down the road to Paihia it was with some vague notion of having a wander around the beach and grabbing some lunch. We had booked a sea kayaking trip in the late afternoon. What we found instead was a sea of people and signs and posters pointing to the Waitangi Day celebrations. Parking in one of the designated car parks we had little option but to join the throng as we wondered what the hell was going on. If it was some sort of Maori car boot sale then it was a big one.

Waitangi Day has been commemorated since 1947 and became a national holiday in 1974. But just as I had discovered with Australia Day two weeks earlier it was not a cause for celebration by every resident.

Along the beach traditional war canoes, manned by tattooed Maoris in tribal costumes, beat their way over the waves to challenge a frigate of the New Zealand Navy that was anchored off-shore. On the other side of the road a large field was full of stalls selling all kinds of foods, T shirts and handicrafts. Pete and I grabbed some fast food and a few thirst quenching drinks and then did something that was to prove controversial.

By now we had grasped the fact that we were in the midst of an important celebration and it seemed that the heart of activities was to be found further down the road, on the small outcrop of land where the Treaty House was situated. Between us and the celebrations there was a river, crossed by a bridge that was just about wide enough to let one car across at a time. There was a mass of people on the bridge, some carrying banners and most of them chanting something in Maori. Since there was no other way to get to the where we wanted to be Pete and I joined the crowd and got swept along. Luckily they were going the same way as us. On the bridge I noticed we were being filmed by several camera crews and it dawned on me that we weren’t just ambling over a bridge. We had become part of a protest march.

I fell in step behind a couple of mothers with pushchairs and even when we were off the bridge I was very happy to be part of this band of determined and vociferous marchers. Beside me there was a Maori lady who can’t have been above five feet tall. She wore a fluorescent bib over some kind of Community Warden’s uniform and was clearly there to act as a steward and not as a protester.

‘What are we doing?’ I asked the mini-warden.

‘It’s a special day,’ she replied. ‘On this day the people are allowed to march and air their grievances.’

‘What are they protesting about?’

‘They want change. To put right the wrongs.’

‘What do they want to change?’ I asked. If a man is going to protest it only seems reasonable that he should know what he is protesting about.

‘Lots of things.’

I tried a more direct approach.

‘Okay. So what do you want to change?’

The warden thought for a second and then replied:

‘To be honest, I’m sick of change.’

For a few years after 1840 the treaty worked well. But as more and more settlers arrived so the demand for land increased. Crown land agents purchased Maori land and often used dubious means to do so. Transactions were further complicated by the fact that in Maori culture there was communal, not individual ownership of land. By 1864, 34 million acres of Maori land in the South Island had been purchased for £14,750. That is less than one penny per acre. The Maori now owned only a thousandth of their original land on South Island.

During this time there was also a shift in power as the New Zealand Government was created, but allowed only four seats for Maori representation.

In the North Island in the 1860’s and early 1870’s the government used force to break resistance to land sales and confiscations.

Disputes over land continue to this day and are settled by the Waitangi Tribunal, which was established in 1975 to investigate both historic and contemporary disputes over breaches in the Waitangi Treaty by the British Crown.

Although we did not know it, when Pete and I joined the march we were taking part in a Maori tradition of protest over civil rights and land loss that goes back to nineteenth century. In 1882 a Maori delegation even travelled to England to appeal to Queen Victoria personally. Vicky was not amused and told them to go home and deal the government of the day.

I realise that as a tourist I probably attained a biased view of Maori culture. One that is marketed and promoted by the tourist industry. During our stay Pete and I were greeted with warmth and friendship wherever we went by people of all backgrounds. But the Maori people earned a special place in my affections. Their adherence to their culture and traditions gained my respect and admiration.

There was nothing touristy about the protest march. Indeed, I’m sure it is something the tourist board would have rather did not take place. At the time I found it amusing for a law abiding citizen such as myself to take part in a political protest. Knowing how police forces work, I am sure that some of those cameras pointed at me were owned by Special Branch and my ugly mug shot is now filed on a police computer.

I was proud to have taken part in that march, and as Pete and I continued our tour we would often mention what we did to people we encountered by way of an amusing anecdote. Often, though, our jolly tale would be met with harsh words and a hint of hostility. One elderly white lady even told me:

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ She then went on to tell me an anecdote of her own that revealed a troubling point of view.

‘The Maoris are always complaining about land loss. There was a lovely golf club that had taken years to build. The greens were beautiful. But the Maori complained that it was on tribal land. So the golf club reached a settlement. They built another golf course and the Maoris took ownership of the land. They let it go to ruin. Weeds and bushes everywhere. It was heartbreaking. I wouldn’t mind, but the Maoris don’t even play golf.’

Waitangi Day (Part 1)

Ka Mate, Ka Mate!

('Tis Death, 'Tis Death!)

Traditional canoe

Planning my trip to Australia had been straightforward. In 12 days I was never going to see much of such a huge country so it was a simple case of deciding on what would be the most adventurous and interesting trip from Sydney. By contrast, making the most of our three weeks in Aotearoa, the land of the long white cloud, proved to be a very difficult task for Pete and me and it took us several attempts to come up with a workable plan.

The population of New Zealand is about 4.3 million, slightly less than the population of the Republic of Ireland. The total land mass, however, is greater than the whole of the United Kingdom. Geographically it is a land of contrasts and diversity that range from the semi-tropical tip of the North Island to the glacial Fiordland on the western coast of the South Island. For a trip of only 21 days it soon became obvious that some of the ‘unmissable’ sights would have to be excluded.

For both of us there was a sense that this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip and we had to squeeze as much out of it as possible. Our original plan was to either hire a camper van to tour both islands or to hire a car and stop at motels along the way. But as we poured over the map and checked the distances it was apparent that trying to see even a limited number of attractions would mean lots of driving and very little time for actually doing any of the numerous exciting activities on offer to the adventurer.

Most people who we spoke to who had been to New Zealand had the same advice to offer – ‘Spend as much time as you can on South Island.’ We contemplated ignoring North Island all together, but the Bay of Islands, in the north east, and Rotorua, in the middle of North Island, both featured high in our list of places we simply could not miss.

In the end it was Air New Zealand that came to our rescue, as we discovered that it was fairly inexpensive to hop from place to place by plane and save hours on the corresponding road journey. What we settled on was an exciting mishmash of short flights, the ferry, scenic railway journeys and hire cars. I was put in charge of accommodation and working to a budget of $120 a day (about £60) I was able to book us into a range of motels, bed and breakfasts and one room, backpacker type accommodations.

Thus it was that on my second full day in New Zealand we made our way back to the airport to take a 40 minute flight to Kerikeri, the airport that serves the Bay of Islands, a journey that would have taken three and half hours by road.

The small car we had hired for our 2 night stay was waiting for us at the airport. Having booked into our motel we immediately set off to explore and headed for Paihia, as this seemed to be the centre of activities. As I’ve said before, serendipity, making fortunate discoveries by accident, is often one of the brilliant by-products of travel. In New Zealand it was a word that was to define our trip and never more so than what was waiting for us as we journeyed to the coastal heart of the Bay of Islands.

New Zealand is one of the most recently settled major land masses. Unlike the Australian Aborigines, the Maori are not truly indigenous as they are the descendents of Polynesian islanders who arrived by canoe about 800 years ago. Also unlike the Aborigines, the Maoris were never a conquered people who had their lands taken from them by force of arms. The signing of a treaty with Great Britain in 1840 has made a big difference to the way in which Maori culture has survived and is evident throughout Aoteaora.

There were about 100,000 Maoris in New Zealand in 1830 and only about 200 Europeans. Drawn mainly by whaling, the number of Europeans, who were mostly British, grew to about 2,000 by 1839. The Maoris were divided into tribes and there were many conflicts. The Europeans brought muskets with them, which the Maoris readily traded for food and flax. An arms race developed as the tribes armed with muskets had an enormous advantage over those with traditional weapons. The so called Musket Wars claimed the lives of about 20,000 Maoris. As with the nuclear arms race of the late 20th Century, it was only when all the tribes had access to the same firepower that peace prevailed.

The Maoris were open to change and welcomed the new ideas brought by the Europeans. The missionaries brought books with them and taught people to read, opening up a new world of learning. Some Maoris travelled the world on the boats that came to their shores. In 1820 two tribal chiefs even travelled to England and met with King George IV.

From the British point of view, trade with the Maoris provided timber for boat building and flax to make rope. It was largely to protect this advantageous trade link that Britain sought to create a treaty with the people of New Zealand.

Towards the end of the 1830’s there were speculative ‘purchases’ of Maori land by Europeans and capitalists from New South Wales. The New Zealand Company, which originated in London in 1839 with the express aim of promoting the colonisation of New Zealand, claimed to have bought 20 million acres of land. The debate over whether the land transactions meant the same to the purchasers as it did to the Maori sellers continues to this day. The Maori culture did not necessarily see the trade in land as a permanent loss.

The Treaty of Waitangi was instituted by the British Government, prompted by concerns over lawlessness, tribal wars and the prospect of formal colonisation by The New Zealand Company. The treaty was in effect the founding document of the nation of New Zealand. It established a British Governor, recognised Maori ownership of their lands and gave Maoris the rights of British subjects. The treaty was written in English and a Maori version was written by a missionary. The two documents did not agree.

On the morning of 6th February, 1840 the Treaty of Waitangi was signed by 45 tribal chiefs in front of the Treaty House at Waitangi, in the Bay of Islands. Little did any of those present know that exactly 170 years later to the day two more hapless Brits would pitch up at the same location totally oblivious to the importance of its significance or the anniversary.

Gay Boys on Tour

Going...

Going...

Gone!


A vision of the future?

My third plane of the day landed in Auckland at gone midnight. I made the 12 mile trip to the city centre by bus and walked wearily to the large hotel where I was to spend my first two nights in New Zealand. Checking in at reception I suddenly heard a familiar voice call my name from across the lobby.

I met Pete in 1991 when we were both working as police trainers. He was very supportive during my divorce and over the years we have embarked on a number of ‘Boy’s weekends’. Our trips have covered England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. We even squeezed in stays in Paris and Bruges.

It was a long held ambition of Pete’s to travel to New Zealand but his wife refused to undertake the long haul journey. When I announced that I was intending to visit the land of the long white cloud Pete immediately said he wanted to come too. I doubted that he would join me as I knew he would feel guilty about leaving Dianne, behind. But Di had not been married to Pete for over 30 years without knowing that being without her husband for three weeks was better than years of regret at a missed opportunity. And so it was that we came to be sharing yet another hotel room on our biggest adventure ever.

To my shame, sharing a room with Pete is always a difficult experience for me. It’s all about how it is perceived by others. Although Pete and I are both tall, burly chaps, it is fair to say that we both have a feminine side that seems to come to the fore when we are together. We make a very convincing gay couple. Once when attempting to book a twin room in Paris we were met with a resounding: ‘Mais, non!’ by the homophobic receptionist and forced to accept two single rooms to avoid us sullying the establishment.

I am so paranoid about being perceived as Pete’s lover that I protest my heterosexuality loudly to anyone willing to listen. When Pete and I emerge for breakfast together I usually manage to talk loudly about how many children I’ve got as a way of suggesting that I am as straight as they come. I even asked a very nice family that Pete and I met at a race meeting if they thought we were gay. ‘God, yes,’ came the resounding reply. ‘Especially you.’ In the modern age I am sure no one gives a fig about my sexuality, but that doesn’t stop me getting very self-conscious about the issue.

Pete, having arrived direct from London early that morning, had made the fatal mistake of falling asleep in the afternoon and was now wide awake. The luxury of our room with its two queen sized beds was a huge contrast to what I had been used to in Australia. Despite the lateness of the hour, Pete broke out a few bottles of beer and we caught up with each other. Pete could hardly contain his excitement about being in New Zealand and embarking on his dream trip. After the indulgence of solo travel it was an excitement that was to become a little bit irritating at times.

Next morning we were up early to make the most of our one day together in Auckland. We dined alfresco at a lovely cafe just down from the hotel and then made our way on foot to the city centre. We didn’t need to follow the map as the structure we were heading for is the tallest man-made feature in New Zealand. The Sky Tower is over a thousand feet tall (328 metres to be precise) and on a clear day it affords views of 50 miles in all directions. For me, the most interesting aspect of the tower was watching the brave individuals outside who had paid £100 to jump off the building.

Dressed in fetching all-in-one suits, the jumpers venture out onto a platform 600 feet high. Painted onto the concrete below is a very handy red and white bull’s-eye target. Securely attached to a harness they then swing out below a gantry and wave at the astonished onlookers inside the tower. Then, whoosh, off they go, falling at 50 miles per hour to the plaza below. The trip takes 11 seconds.

Pete suffers dreadfully from vertigo so a Sky Jump was definitely not on his list of things to do in Auckland. In fact, I was quite surprised that he even wanted to go up the tower at all. Seeing people in jump suits falling to the ground brought back bad memories of my parachuting experience, so I too chose to take the lift down instead.

Auckland has a natural harbour called Waitemata. It is sheltered from the Pacific Ocean by two islands, Rangitoto and Waiheke. Pete had already made the short journey across to Rangitoto whilst waiting for me to arrive the previous day so we decided to take the one hour ferry ride out to Waiheke.

The island was beautiful and it is hard to imagine something so sublime as close to a city. Not surprisingly a number of people lived on the island and used the ferry service to commute to jobs in Auckland. The countryside would have appeared very English was it not for the odd vineyard dotted around the coast. It was like the English Lake District only next to a clear sea and given a temperate climate. In fact, with any luck, if sea levels continue to rise and global warming continues then this is exactly what the English countryside will look like in just a few years. So scrap those useless energy saving bulbs, get burning the fossil fuels and break out the Oakleys and Factor 30.

Pete is an avid birdwatcher and despite my complete lack of interest in most of the little feathered sods he insists on pointing them out to me on every trip we undertake. The New World meant whole swathes of new species for Pete to study through his binoculars. His ornithological juices were overflowing. Add to that the fact that he was in the land of his dreams, where everything was to be wondered at, and Pete was definitely in a constant and animated frenzy of ecstasy.

I spent the evening before I embarked for Australia in the company of a very lovely lady whose company I had desired for a while. I had spent five months, ever since I came back from Africa, trying to win her over but as ever, the course of true love was littered with obstacles. The obstacle in this case was a rather beefy ex-boyfriend who didn’t agree on the ‘ex’ bit. Despite her ‘I can’t wait for you to get back’ assurances, I had my doubts and embarked on my trip like a sailor going to sea, not sure what I would be coming home to.

I had not discussed my concerns with anyone, but now, with my long time friend and confidante, Pete, by my side I had the opportunity to unburden myself. As we meandered along the Waiheke coastal path and a country lane beset on both sides by lush vineyards I opened up to my good buddy. I told him of all the ins and outs and ups and downs of my frustrating, yet potentially life changing courtship. After twenty minutes I drew to a breathless halt and said:

‘So, what do you think I should do?’

‘Wow! Look at that rock,’ said Pete.