South island: Part one

Arriving in the South Island we immediately noticed an increase in the number of tourists. There were plenty in the North Island but they virtually quadrupled upon our arrival in Picton. But there's a reason for this. The South Island is simply breathtaking. We drove, with our mascots Kev the kiwi bird and Shazza the sheep dangling from our rearview mirror, gaping at the spectacular surrounds. Our first night was spent parked alongside Ed's "best river he's ever swam in", cooking the fish we'd bought in Wellies, and swatting the sandflies that had suddenly become prolific, all to the chorus of noisy cicadas.

The next day, we drove through more wine farms - the sauvignon blanc Marlborough region is nearby - and picturesque Nelson to Abel Tasman national park, the northwestern most point of the South Island. We'd chosen to come here rather than the slightly more favoured route of heading west through Kaikoura, because we both felt that we've swum with dolphins already (see Christmas in Jervis Bay blog entry). Aren't we spoilt?

If a child were to draw a picture of a valley, this would be it - snowcapped mountains framing a green valley below

As luck would have it, the clouds that gathered in the morning dispersed halfway through our seakayaking experience around the peninsula. We saw seals frolicking in the surf, beautiful deserted beaches, and caves honeycombed in the limestone hills. The water went from a murky grey to a clear greeny-blue as the skies cleared. We'd arranged to kayak to a beach, drop the boat off there for the company to collect and then walk, or tramp as the Kiwis say, through the verdant bush back to the campsite. This was an enormously ambitious feat of fitness for the two of us, more used to sitting on our bums in Stan the Van than actually using the legs God gave us as we were. But we survived. And very pretty it was too.

That night, as we nursed our blisters and planned our route for the next day, we made a pact to start "slumming it a bit more". We were a tad disgruntled at forking out $30 a night for a powered site - plus paying $1 for hot water in the showers! - when Stan didn't need any power. We'd noticed that our fellow caravan-parkers all seemed to be around the 50+ mark, yet there were plenty of other crusty young 'uns like us on the road. They must be parking somewhere overnight, mustn't they? Well, from now on, we'd be roughing it like true backpackers.

The following day we hugged the west coast down past the strange rock formations at Pancake rocks, the aptly named Greymouth (it had clouded over by now and started to drizzle) and on to Hokitika, the home of the native Greenstone. Custom says that one should never buy greenstone for oneself, so Ed bought Candice a ring she had her eye on. For himself, Ed bought a ukelele, of all things, and proceeded to blame the shopkeeper's inadequate tuning skills for the reason the little instrument failed to create sweet music for the remainder of the drive! We parked in a DOC campsite conveniently close to a cosy looking pub and walked through the bush at dusk to buy ourselves a well-deserved nightcap. Imagine our surprise when a mass of 18-year-old kiddies sauntered in dressed up as clouds and sheep: the pub was a Kiwi-Experience bus stopping point! We quickly felt our age, dressed in our waterproof kagouls and sensible shoes, so we hurriedly skulled our Monteiths and scuttled back to our van in the rain.

Said rain was due to let up in two days time. We mooched about waiting for it to clear, and then drove to Okarito, a secluded one-horse town right on the beachfront just north of the glaciers. We went for a wind-swept walk, the beach littered with huge driftwood and grey stones split with white stripes. The sky was moody and the sea even more so as we nearly tripped into a seal snoozing on the shore. The sunset that night inspired Ed to take about a million photos.

At sparrow's fart the next morning, a Kiwi phrase, we drove to Franz Josef to be collected by, wait for it, our helicopter. Yes, despite our new pact of scrimping on accommo, we decided we could just about stretch to paying to be airlifted up to the top of the Franz Josef glacier for a hike high above the riff raff lurking in the dirty snow below. It was money well spent. For two hours we followed our axe-wielding guide through the ice, discovering enormous blue ice caves that would melt and shift and no longer be there in three weeks time. Amazing.

So too was the drive along the Haast pass. We stopped to gawp at ferociously pounding waterfalls and the clearest rivers packed with trout before spending the night in a DOC site with the most spectacular view. As Ed pointed out, if a child were to draw a picture of a valley, this would be it - snowcapped mountains framing a green valley below. The only blight on this perfect picture was the sodding sandflies that had infiltrated Stan and were suddenly not funny anymore as they bit us relentlessly once the sun set.

But by morning they were gone so on we went, stopping off to see more breathtakingly clear blue pools before parking next to Lake Hawea, where we went for a lovely long tramp in the mountains. It was all we could do not to break out into “The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music”, arms expansively splayed akimbo. This was, I might point out, Valentines Day, and exactly two thirds of our way through the trip, but I can't think of a more beautiful way to spend it. We rounded it off with a beer watching the sun set over Lake Wanaka in the quaint little town of the same name, before eating steak parked for free (read: illegally) next to the river on the road to Queenstown. Who said camping wasn't romantic?