My first drink.

A young, small me.

I joined the medical faculty in University Collage, Dublin in September 1939. I was then only 5ft 2 inches in height. I was a pygmy among the rest of the boys in the class. I had spent 6 years in an Irish speaking school in Dublin and socially I felt a foreigner among the lads from Clongowes, Blackrock and Belvedere. I was very conscious of my delayed physical development, of my diminutive size and my light weight, but I was reassured at the time by my mother, who told me that her own four brothers also showed the same delayed development but all grew up to be of normal size.  

At first I showed little change in size or weight but within the next year or more I grew about 9 inches and was close to 6 ft by the time I finished growing.

No prizes for guessing...

At the time of my arrival in the university I was in great demand by the boxing and rowing clubs, the first as a flyweight and the second as a cox, because the lighter the cox, the faster the boat. Happily I went for the rowing club and for the next 3 years I became a dedicated member of this club.

By my 4^th year I was strong and big enough to take up rowing so I continued as a member of the maiden and junior eights until my last year when I went back to work in the university. My first three years in the university had little to do with my education as a doctor and my interest was largely in the rowing club. We used to train in the club on the Liffey just beyond the entrance to the Phoenix Park. Training started in early October and finished by late May or early June. There were three classes of crew, the least experienced were called the maidens, heavier ones were juniors and the most competent and strongest were the seniors. Rowing up and down a river day after day must seem to the unacquainted to be a very tedious business but in fact as a sport and as a social occupation it was a wonderful world in itself. 

A serious business.

There were two classes of boats, fours and eights, and all competitions involved both classes. We rowed six days every week for about four miles on the river, except for a few days at Christmas time. We were fully trained in exercise and we were forbidden the use of alcohol; had to go to bed early and were greatly discouraged from close association with the opposite sex. My chief role as a cox was steering the boat and caring for its upkeep but I also maintained certain elements of order amongst the crews.

  

I might perhaps describe my last event as a cox before I took up rowing. I had by then stretched to six feet, and although I was still very light, I was considered the following year as being a suitable candidate for the maiden eight.  My last outing as a cox was in May 1942. On that occasion the regatta was held for the first time in an unusual river, that is the Boyne at Drogheda. There were several other rowing clubs taking part and the races were held in the estuary of the Boyne well down below the railway bridge. It was a very wet, cold and rough day, and the rough and turbulent estuary was such that the young cox who was with me had not the courage to face the elements. It was necessary therefore for me to cox all six races, during which five were overcome by the stormy weather and we were left drowning out in the ocean! We remained safe thanks to the big oars and the fore and aft airtight compartments of the boat but we got dreadfully wet and exposed. Because I was obliged to cox all races, I was totally exhausted and exposed by the end of the day.  It proved to be an important event in my life. I was given a glass of hot whiskey, my first alcoholic drink.  I recall the extraordinary recovery the hot whiskey had on my exhausted state and I therefore obligingly agreed to have another. Life was improving rapidly after the second Irish whiskey so I agreed to have a third and at that stage I must have passed out because I recall waking in the hotel bed the following morning after spending twelve hours in deep sleep or some might say, coma!

This seems a rather pointless story and hardly brings joy to the reader, but it was an important event for me because, apart from surviving the hazards of drowning and pneumonia, it started my drinking career. Fortunately, we were too impoverished as students to afford alcoholic drinks, but nevertheless what started as a medicinal solution to the revival to normal life, I had started a habit which I am glad to say I have always enjoyed, but, happily, almost always in moderation. 

Everything in moderation...

Despite the difficulties involved in enjoying the habit at appropriate times, I wonder do others still remember their first alcoholic drink under such traumatic circumstances. 

Goodnight

The doting parents

After about four years training in London mostly in the National Heart Hospital, I returned as a cardiologist to my old teaching hospital, St Vincent’s in Dublin. Amongst my colleagues there was Jamesy Maher, the youngest surgeon of the staff.  We became very friendly, played a lot of golf in Portmarnock, dined occasionally together, went to the races and often finished one way or the other, rather late at night!  He lived in one of the large Georgian houses in Fitzwilliam Place.  He was unmarried but his two sisters had recently moved to a suburban house in Blackrock.  On frequent occasions he was obliged, because of his late work or other activities, to remain in his city house without returning to his family.  We occasionally visited his house late at night for a drink, perhaps with a few other colleagues.  His favourite drink was Guinness and champagne mixed and it was not normally refused by his friends when offered!  He also had an unusual habit of locking the front door so that we could not easily return home too early.   

The house

On one occasion at about seven o’clock in the morning I escaped and was walking up the rather long, slightly curvaceous avenue of our two acre home in Rathmines when I found myself passing my father on his way to seven o’clock mass in the church across the road from our house.  It’s the church with the big green dome.  He passed me by without any comment except ‘Goodnight’ as he exited the gate - embarrassing but not the first time this had happened,  having uttered the same greeting under even more embarrassing circumstances a few years previously.

In my earlier years in the university, as was our custom in the rowing club, we were all teetotallers during the six months training season.  But after each Regatta we were inclined to let our hair down.  At that time in the late 40’s there was a custom in Ireland that the pubs closed at 10.30pm but that if one could claim to live three miles or further from the pub, one could remain legitimately until 12.30.  You were considered a traveller.   

The Clock

We visited a well known pub on these late occasions up in Rathfarnham.  As a result, my arrival home could be as late as 2am.  Once, when I arrived at the gate of the house and looked up the avenue I could see that the lights were still on in the drawing room and therefore my parents were still up.  I was very surprised at this so I decided to wait my time until the lights turned off – about 5 minutes later and then I waited until their bedroom light, which was above the drawing room, went on.  Again, I waited a few moments before approaching the house as I assumed that they were either in bed or on the way. 

The Culprit

After a few moments and with some difficulty I managed to insert the key in the front door and quietly opened it and probably fell rather than walked into the hallway.  I was shocked to find both my parents standing up at the top of the stairs watching me.  They must have been watching me all along but not a word was said.  I knew I was in an awkward situation and I realised that I must do something sensible and rational which I would have done under normal circumstances.  It occurred to me that our big grandfather clock in the far corner of the hall might need to be winded, so without a word to my parents I rushed across the hall to the front of the clock.  The glass covering of the clock face was closed.  I took a good hold of the covering catch and pulled it vigorously in order to open it but in my vigour I pulled the cover so thoroughly that I threw its glass right across the hall with a loud smash as it disintegrated.  I felt immediately embarrassed, looked up at my parents, saw them standing there watching without a word, felt like a living statue standing in their presence and waited interminably until my father said ‘Goodnight’, and left quietly.

The clock now lives in Strasbourg with  my daughter Tina who sent on the following account of her own escapades:

When Dad's parents replaced the broken glass they put a flat glass on it with the result that for 72 years or so the door in the face did not close.  I got the clock in 2008 following mum's death and spent 6 years looking for a new oval shaped glass which I eventually found and had fitted by the clock man who repairs Strasbourg Cathedral clock.  So the clock face door was able to close again... for six months when I discovered that the top of the door's wood had warped!  He had obviously used some glue that had an effect on the old wood.  I am now trying to find a way of unwarping the wood.  I should have left it as it had been for over seventy years! 

Peter Scott

Peter Scott, Painter and Naturalist. Elspeth Huxley. Ulverscroft Large Print Publishers Leicester. 1996 (first published in 1993). 

This blog was written on February 6th 2012

I bought this book for one Euro at the RDS sale of books in December 2011. Peter Scott was born in 1909, the only son and only child of the explorer Captain Robert Falcon Scott of the Antarctic and Kathleen (Née Bruce). His father died in the Antarctic in March 1912 and is stated to have said before leaving for the South Pole that he hoped his son would become "a strenuous man", as indeed he did. In a short summary at the beginning of the book it described Peter as

A championship skater, dinghy rider and glider pilot as well as an accomplished painter. Scott’s abiding passion was for wildlife. He travelled the world, hunting and painting wild birds, and then gave up shooting to found the Wildlife Trust and later co-found the World Wildlife Fund. His campaigns and television programmes awakened the world to the damage being inflicted on the natural environment.

Kathleen's statue of her husband, Robert Scott

His mother simply doted on him and through her elitist contacts played a large part in his success, particularly as a painter. After her husband’s death, Kathleen came to reflect in her late husband’s glory as did her son, which allowed her to become an intimate friend and a close acquaintance to the elite of Britain and of Royalty. She was a competent and successful sculptor. She subsequently married the Tory politician Edward Hilton Young, later to become Lord Kennet of the Dene. Her son too shared her prominence and in his later years he was not slow to take advantage of his influence to establish his reputation as a painter of birds, as a naturalist and as a sponsor of the World Wildlife Fund. The author’s description of mother and son is liberally provided with the names of the high and the mighty, perhaps with a tendency to name dropping.

However, the subject of the biography deserved to be remembered for his extraordinary career as a naturalist and his very special interest and research into the natural history and natural habits of geese worldwide. He had spent three or four years at Cambridge where his academic progress left little to be proud of (he emerged, after an extra year, with an indifferent pass degree) but it was there that he acquired his great passion for shooting and learning all there was to know about geese. He spent little time in the classroom in the University but almost all his time in the Norfolk Fens with a few other enthusiasts and naturalists.

Early in 1940 he joined the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve and remained in the naval service until the end of the War by which time he was commanding a frigate and had received several mentions in dispatches with an MBE and a few bars. Later in 1943 he was awarded a DSC for his courage. He surely was lucky to have survived some very dangerous sallies into the French coast long before the invasion of the allied troops in 1944.

For those who are interested in wildlife and particularly in birds, the book is worth reading if only to learn some aspects of the social and environmental life of Britain before and after the World War. The subject of the book certainly emerged as the strenuous character which was hoped for by his late lamented father. Peter Scott must have been endowed by an enormous energy and by exceptional ambition and confidence to have such eclectic achievements as a writer, painter, propagandist, soldier and, above all, as a naturalist. The author quotes a friend who said that Scott attracted a great sense of deference amongst his acquaintances and yet he was struck by his character, so natural, so reasonable, so kind and so unaffected. His marriage in 1942 was to end in divorce much to his distress. His mother’s death from leukaemia at the age of 68 was also a blow. He was to travel widely in search of naturalist interests and to have chronic financial troubles not improved by his commitment to the cash-starved brainchild, the Severn Wildlife Trust. The Trust aimed at scientific research, public education and species preservation. It was his financial problems with his various interests that induced him to start writing and broadcasting with the BBC.

I have to say, however, that I found the book far too long and somewhat tedious and by the second half of the book I found myself skimming rather than reading the text. Despite this reservation, I must agree that Peter Scott was a remarkable man well up to the reputation of his famous father, Scott of the Antarctica. I will finish by quoting a letter in chapter 13 of the book, a plea written in 1855 to the then President of the United States from Chief Seattle, a Dkhw'Duw'Absh chief -

What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand in it.

Peter Scott married again, had three children and had grandchildren before he died in 1986 just short of his 80^th birthday. It would be impossible in a short review to give justice to the immense amount Scott contributed in his talents, his worldwide contribution to wildlife, his travels and his contribution to international understanding of our dependence on Nature and of every other species sharing the earth with us.

A final blog from the travellers

Lucy, trying to take it all in.

(Ed. After seven weeks, the travellers have returned home. Many attempts were made to persuade the younger members of the party (aged 10 - 16) to write a blog but Lucy was the only one who proffered some thoughts. We will return to Risteárd's blogs next week.)





A day in the life of Martin Carrillo – Lucy Perrier (age 13)

Edward (Asst. Guide), Dad and Martin.

This profile is about a day in the life of a Peruvian guide for the Inca Trail.

His name is Martin Carillo and I will introduce him to you. He was born in Cusco, Peru in 1975.  He grew up in a big family with six brothers and two sisters. His childhood was not the same as ours. Most days he would walk through the mountains with all his brothers and sisters to visit his grandmother’s house or go to school.   “We would walk for hours and hours”, Martin told me.  

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Walking is an Indian tradition and his family has a lot of Indian origins so that explains the common walks in the Carrillo family.  The walks made him want to become a guide, but not just a guide in a museum, a mountain guide so that he could enjoy the outdoor life and the beauty of “mother nature”, one of the favorite things he liked to say!   

The Inca Trail is a four day trek from Piscacucho, Kilometre 82, around 100 km from Cusco, the Quechan capital of Peru.    The Quechans were an old Indian population who built Macchu Picchu and other ancient sites in parts of Peru, Bolivia, Chile and Ecuador.  The Emperor of the Quechans was the Inca.  The day in the life of Martin as described here will be the first day of the trek with a group of walkers from abroad

Martin wakes up at 5 am. He says goodbye to his 10 year old daughter Urpi (Indian for dove) and to his partner of 20 years.  He is always sad when he leaves for his four day treks but he knows that this work and the salary he makes will allow his daughter to have the education she deserves “I am very very proud of her” he says with a tear in his eye.  He takes the bus to the hotel in the centre of Cusco where his group (us!) has been staying for a few days in order to get used to the altitude.  Cusco is at an altitude of 3,200 metres and for most Europeans it will be difficult for them at first.  Once he greets the group he helps them put their rucksacks and three bags of clothes they need for the trek into the van driven by Hugo that will take them to KM 82, the beginning of the 42 km trek.

After a two hour drive the van arrives at Piscacucho KM 82.  The group is all ready to go and a little nervous about the challenge ahead.  But Martin is full of stories about the mountains and the land around and gives the group last minute advice about how important it is to drink lots of water and to wear sun cream and hats at all times.  Once the group is at KM 82 Martin introduces them to the team of 14 helpers who will be with the group on the trek.

Having a little rest along the way.

There is an assistant guide, Edward, a cook and 12 porters who will be carrying all the gear needed for the trip.   Each porter will carry up to 30 kg of equipment like tents, gas canisters, sleeping bags, food, tables and chairs.  They have amazing strength and sometimes are quite small men who do not look as strong as they are.  Most of the porters are also small farmers on a piece of land.  But they are poor so they work as porters whenever they can to get extra money to feed their families.

Once everyone is ready to go Martin sets off with his group.  It is nearly 8:30 am and this first day will be quite short so that the group gets used to the trekking.  Everyone has a set of walking poles as the trek will mainly be climbing uphill or downhill.  The poles help in both directions.  Martin walks in front with great speed accompanied by the faster people from the group and Edward walks at the back to stay with the slower people. The porters run ahead to get to the campsite before the group so that they have time to set up the tents. During the day Martin stops many times to explain about the history of the Quechans. He knows so much about the Quechan culture because he went to university to learn about the ancient Peruvians. Martin went to one of the best universities in Cusco. His parents had to raise nine children, and they weren’t very rich so it was a great achievement that they were able to put him through university. After his many years in university Martin was qualified to be a guide for Machu Picchu and many other museums. “I am very proud to know my culture well” he quotes. 

Thank you Martin.

When Martin and the group arrive at the campsite they greet the porters and then relax after the long day walking. The cook prepares dinner and they eat at about half six and then go to bed to wake up early the next day.

Martin has been working as a guide for twenty years and loves his job. 

LOST IN THE REMARKABLES

Thoughts on New Zealand 



Blog written by Tina.
 

Three sets of siblings over two generations, three in-laws, Irish, English and French, 3003 km travelling from Christchurch to Auckland in two campervans and a Ford between 30th December 30th  and today, January 24th.

Our route took us from Christchurch in the south island of New Zealand through Akaroa, Dunedin, Queenstown, Wanaka, Fox Glacier, Murchison, Picton, Poharo and Rotorua.  We finished our road trip in Auckland.
We had never driven a 7 metre long and 3.2 metre High vehicle so

Sunset at Akaroa

some were a little nervous when we started the trip.  However, we took to it like a duck to water and apart from a little scratch on one of the roofs (not ours, and not done by a female) no damage was done to either the vans or their occupants during the trip.

New Zealand is an incredible country for many reasons.  The landscapes are stunning and often breathtaking.  Most of our time was spent in the South Island.  This is probably why I came away with a preference for the south.  There are less people (out of the four million or so new Zealanders only 800,000 live in the South Island), incredible mountains, lakes and of course this is where I discovered the Tasman Sea, somewhere I had heard about but never really thought I would see.

Akaroa was our first stop off.  It’s not far from Christchurch on the East coast by the sea (Pacific ocean) and is a French town.  A Frenchman laid claim to the territory sometime during the 19th century when he embarked in this part of NZ.  It seems he went home to get some paperwork done and by the time he came in the British (well, English actually) had stepped in and taken over the country.  You can imagine that our trip began well when we discussed this amongst our English and French in-laws.  It was lucky the Irish were there to mediate!  

A good camper comes prepared .

Akaroa is beautiful and very quaint.  There is a sense of the far west that was to be felt in most of the smaller NZ towns.  The people were friendly and the camping park was great.  Our vans were facing out onto the harbour.  We stayed three nights and celebrated New Year’s Day in Akaroa.  Most of the occupants of this site were from NZ and they were friendly and cheerful.  The campsite (and in fact all the others we visited) were incredible.  Fantastic facilities and so well kept.  Everything was clean and everyone cleaned up after him/herself.  This was something that struck all of us during the short month we stayed in NZ.  We found ourselves having these big discussions about how clean the public loos were and it almost became a challenge for someone to find a loo that was not immaculate!  Mentioning this to Edmond I learn that the men’s loos were not always immaculate as the ladies.
Dunedin was the Scottish stop.   The highlights of Dunedin were its train station that is the oldest in the country and the visit to the world’s only mainland colony of the royal albatross.  These birds are just spectacular and the setting, at the end of a peninsula, was splendid.   Edmond and the children liked the Cadburys factory too! 

Dunedin Train Station

From Dunedin we headed over to Queenstown.  You will have already read about the slight detour of the Anglo-Irish part of our group to Invercargill on the way but enough said about that!  Queenstown was a favourite for most of the group and especially the younger members.   Liam, 16, did his first 46 metre bungee jump in the presence of his cousins and parents.  Martha (Liam’s Mum) was so paralysed that when she filmed the scene her camera went up instead of down.  A fine view of the Queenstown sky!  Some quite spectacular zip lining and field sledging (luge) were also enjoyed by the children and some of the adults.   Edmond, Barbara, Andrew and myself took off for a days cycling over the hills and around the Queenstown lakes.   

The Remarkables Mountain Range and Queensland

There is a limit to how many times one can say breathtaking or spectacular in a BLOG but those 50 km we cycled that day deserve to be described as such.  The mountains around Queenstown are called the Remarkables.  Those Lord of the Ring fans might recognise photos of them, as these are the hills that have been used in the LOR movies albeit somewhat photo-shopped along the way.    Our site in Queenstown was right beside the centre of the town so lots of shopping was done when the party was not taking gondolas up the hill and luges down again.    Ten of the party set off for a morning to the shotover river in a jet boat.  Before reaching the river they endured a perilous bus journey on a narrow track hanging about 200 metres above the sea.   Martha was put on the inside and spent the time counting the dust particles of the floor.   I was not allowed to go (bad back obliged) and was forced to relax back at the camp.

I don’t necessarily think the reader is interested in a blow for blow description of what we did all the time but I feel that a few words about our lifestyle during this time might be of interest.  

Wash dishes or jump?

If I were a reader I would be just dying to know how eleven relatively opinionated people (or we could just say eleven people with characters bordering on the strong side) could live in such close proximity for such a long time.  Now to be honest, how many of us have had to spend 24 hours a day over a 24-day period where the only break you get is to go and enjoy having a pee in an immaculate toilet?   It is quite remarkable but apart from a few minor hissie fits from one party or the other (no names will be mentioned of course) everyone actually managed to get on at least as well as usual (ie living in Ireland, France and England) which, incidentally, is pretty damn well.  So in my book this is quite a feat.  We had to get used to living in such small quarters and learn how to plan going from one end of the van to the other when someone was standing in the middle making a coffee. The clothes were washed in the laundries and Martha was often to be seen marching down the site's paths with a giant black bag full of laundry at seven in the morning (or so).  

John and friend (or maybe not...)

We sort of took it in turns to do the cooking in the evening.  The men excelled at the barbecue (see previous BLOG) if copious amounts of NZ wine was served at the same time and the ladies rolled out curries, spag bol, chillies, asian soup and other délices. We learned that the best way to make meals was in the common kitchens of the site.  Washing dishes, done incidentally most evenings by the children with relatively few arguments, was done in the common kitchens.  We had decided that we would not use the toilets or the showers of the campervans.  They were ideal places to store our suitcases and although we felt that a good old fight about the dishes was ok, none of us wanted to find ourselves with the job of cleaning the loos.   This was yet another reason for us to have been so ecstatic about the clean NZ loos (gosh I am mentioning this quite a lot).   

The Eastern side of the south island was completely different in terms of landscape and scenery.  

Pancakes anyone?

First of all there was the Tasman Sea to discover for the first time.  The water was clear and a beautiful blue (and cold). The landscapes were straight out of the Amazonian forestland.  Huge fern trees, humid air, birdsong we had never heard before, the eroded rocks in the sea reminding us of the statues in Easter Island or those found in Pancake rock which look like a million pancakes piled one on top of the other.   We spent a night in Fox Glacier but missed the glacier due to low clouds (fog one might say) and quickly moved on up to Murchison where ten of the eleven went white water rafting for the day.  I was not allowed to participate (the back thing again!) so was tied to the fridge of the campervan for the day.  I actually spent a lovely day bathing in the waterhole of the river we stayed beside and enjoyed the deafening silence of the day.

We kept heading north and eventually said our sad farewells to Barbara and Andrew who were leaving from Christchurch and not going over to the North Island with us.  We had a lovely last supper together, lots of hugs and “see you soons” before parting our ways.  The biggest mistake we had made while we were a group of eleven was not to have had a photo taken with all of us together. 

And then there were nine.  We spent our last few days in Rotorua in the centre of the North Island.  We had splendastic weather and pitched up beside the Blue Lake for three days sunbathing, swimming and generally relaxing.   One of the highlights for everyone was the pontoon in the lake where the children spent endless hours trying to tip each other off into the lake. 

Vital ingredients?

So a wonderful time had by all.  The general consensus is that NZ is a truly spectacular country in terms of landscape, the people are friendly and very conscious of the environment unlike our European homes, the sun shone practically all of the time and when it didn’t the stars did, the cost of living is more or less the same as home although the diesel is much cheaper in NZ, the wine is good, the beer is good, the lemonade is good but not as good as Peru (top tip for lemonade drinkers …go to Peru) and we all had a pinch in the heart as we set off towards Kuala Lumpur for the last leg of our trip.

RAFTING, GLAMPING AND “TO FLIP OR NOT TO FLIP”

Blog written by Andrew.

To date, the IFEG (Irish French Expeditionary Group) and AIEG (Anglo Irish Expeditionary Group) have travelled from Akoroa to Dunedin, to Queenstown (with an aforementioned detour) and Wanaka, to Murchison via Fox Glacier (it’s melting v fast), from Golden Bay to Picton from where I am writing.  The combined tour comes to an end tomorrow with the IFEG party heading to the North Island and thence to Auckland and onto Malaysia for a few days.  The AIEG party are spending a few days in Kaiakoura before ending our tour in Christchurch from where we head back to northern climes.

New Zealand: some of the best white water rafting in the world

Where to start?  As the title suggests, we have been rafting – White Water Rafting to be more specific.  Based in Murchison alongside millions of sandflies, Intrepid Tours run rafting trips along many of the rivers in those there parts. We booked a whole day tour with three guides and three boats.   Dressed in thermal tops, neoprene wetsuits, neoprene boots, buoyancy jackets and helmets, we must have presented an odd looking group. The only accessible skin was our hands and goodness me did the sandflies make hay, as it were.   After a short drive to the Buller River – the longest free flowing river in New Zealand because it has not yet been dammed or have any hydro electric installations on it, we were given a short ‘elf n’ safety’ talk and as the poet Masefield put it, we ‘must down to the sea, the lonely sea and and the sky’ although it was a river and not very lonely.  Ah well.  We glided and paddled and then came to the first set of rapids.  Looking fairly innocuous (oh the bravery of the inexperienced!) it came as a rude shock when Matt, our ‘chap at the back’ shouted “Get down” and cold water washed all over us.  Once through that particular rapid I recalled in my mind the conversation I’d had with an insurance company whilst sorting out my travel insurance.  When I asked Doug, I think his name was, about ‘dangerous sports’ knowing that WWR (white water rafting) was a possibility he said he’d have a look at the list.  “Interesting” he said, “archery is there alongside badminton”. Both our minds boggled and I’m sure conjured up different mental constructs as to how either of them could be termed ‘dangerous’.  Mine had me strapped to a target with Robin Hood and his Merrie Men about to let loose a volley of arrows in my direction.  I digress but you will be reassured to know that guided WWR up to Level 3 is covered.

We mixed up the adrenaline fuelled shooting of rapids (‘Earthquake Falls’ was one such typical name) with gentle meandering down the slow sections of the river much like Ratty and Mole in The Wind in the Willows enjoying a delicious picnic of freshly made sandwiches, fruit and cakes.  One memorable moment came when Matt decided to ‘surf’ the raft in a rapid.  Suffice to say this meant holding the bow of the raft into a fast running flow of white water so much so that the two bow occupants,  the aptly named Perrier pere et fils, were subjected to a freezing cold, torrential shower from which emanated gasps of shock and air and the occasional “Mon Dieu!”.

How we laughed – in the back of the raft, dry and full of humour.  I cannot end this little tale of the river bank without mentioning something that our chums from Wind in the Willows did not have to contend with: sandflies.  We first encountered these critters in Wanaka but the Murchison version has a real attitude problem.  Any morsel of bare flesh was fair game to them and the seven hours we spent on the Buller was seven hours of sandfly heaven.  They are tiny little bugs and they give a noticeable but not especially painful nip; one spends a great deal of time brushing them off yet they still persist.  This hand above had over 30 bites on it.  Our physiological reactions ranged from no reaction to pustules forming on the hand in the case of Barbara (otherwise known as 'the Felon').  The poor girl was really very uncomfortable with pustular swollen hands.  In a group that contains three doctors, the way they seemed to distance themselves, professionally and physically, from the problem was slightly unnerving. As I write this, the Felon has reminded me to tell of the near drowning.  It almost escaped my memory which is a bit surprising because it was your correspondent who nearly drowned.  What happened is as follows:  along the lazy, slow moving parts of the river, our guides, Matt included, encouraged us to hurl ourselves overboard into the cool waters.  On the second occasion, I decided to join in the fun and not terribly elegantly joined Poseidon.  Remember that we were all dressed head to toe in warm, buoyant clothing so the danger of getting into difficulty was remote, to say the least.  After a few moments of floating Eeyore like, I felt a rising sense of panic and very quietly said “I’m panicking” to anyone that might have been within earshot.  No reaction so I grabbed a leg belonging to Edouard Perrier and said to him “Teddy, I'm having a bit of a panic here” and understandably given the lack of urgency in my voice, he laughed and carried on floating.  Luckily his father heard me as did Matt and soon the rescue was assayed and I lay, panting in the bottom of the raft feeling a tad foolish.  It was a horrid moment, I can tell you.

And so ended a fabulous day on the Buller – laughs, fear, adrenaline and weary arms and thanks to all the guys at Intrepid tours for joining in the fun and being so totally professional in the way they went about their work.

From Murchison, we decided to head north to Golden Bay and the Abel Tasman National Park.  I find it fascinating that the great man has a body of water and a national park named after him but he never set foot in New Zealand.  The motorhomes managed to secure accommodation at a campsite but us ‘saloonies’ had ‘no room in the inn’.  Tina found, via AirBNB, a glamping site for the Felon and myself.  After our experience of tents in Akoroa, the enthusiasm was muted.  Yet what an experience we had.  Owned by Shanti a young Coloradian who has lived in NZ for the last 15 years, the huge bell tent (5m diameter) was sited on her ½ acre property amongst fruit trees, her vegetables, chickens and a pet rabbit.  Nearby was a composting loo and a babbling stream – not , I repeat not, connected.   

Inside the Achillean tent was a queen sized sleigh bed, chairs, chest of drawers, lights, tea and coffee making facilities as per the best hotels.  All fully electrified.  In her garden shanti had made an outdoor cooking area for her guests consisting of a two ring gas burner and a sink with a rain water fed tap.  It was a wonderful two nights that we spent there – hearing the dawn chorus from the warmth of the bed and then after they had exhausted their repertoire, going back to sleep for another fours hours until the sun awakened us.  Thank you Tina for finding this adventure for us – no holiday is complete without a spot of glamping.

Wot a larf...

Finally – to flip or not to flip, that is the question.  Over the many evenings when we have enjoyed BBQ’d food, it has become apparent that there are deeply held views as to the correct way of cooking.  Are you a flipper or a sealer/releaser?   When you add males to the conundrum, the views seem to be more entrenched.  Some, perhaps two men, watching a third man cook are astounded at the speed with which the spatula is used to flip the meat.  It transpires that these two are ‘Sealer/releasers” whose credo is to Leave the Meat Well Alone.  Their ‘copain de feu’ is a Flipper and as soon as the meat is on the grill, he’s working away with the spatula, turning and flipping much to their incredulity at the heretical act they are witnessing. I’m sure that being the discerning reader you are, you will have your own views. 

Random but cool. Fence of bras in support of the big C.

A postscript:  no wars were declared or diplomatic incidents recorded in the cooking of consistently delicious food over the past three weeks.

 

More dreams come true...sort of.

There's worse places to write.

Blog written by Hugh Mulcahy on 14^th January 2016

Hi all from Hugh. Now where are we?  Ah yes, lying in the back of a 7.2 meter long, six berth camper van bumping along from Murchison to Golden Bay on New Zealand’s South Island trying to write a blog. This will likely last about 187km, mostly through mountain passes and sub-tropical rain forests, but also over O’Sullivan’s Bridge and past Longford. We’re really never too far away from Ireland.

Longford (not quite Ireland e.g. note the sunny weather...)

Although travelling through Na Zilin’, as the locals call it, my thoughts are still on Easter Island. I should note that not many people holiday there, and I don’t think I saw a single other touring family group on the Island. It’s mostly older tourists who go to gawp at the stone statues (moai) and snigger that they look like auntie Hilda on a good day. You might therefore wonder why we went to that most remote of South Sea Islands. Ah, um, yes, actually erhhhum, it was my fault.

I read Aku Aku, Thor Heyerdhal’s book on his Easter Island expedition, at the age of 17 in 1976. It describes his 1956 expedition to unlock the secrets of Easter Island: Who were the original settlers? How had the huge Moai, weighing many tens of tons, been moved across the island? How had the island population been decimated in the 18^th and 19^th Centuries? To be brief, his most important conclusion was that the island was originally populated by South American Incas who had built stone monuments, and that the present population were part of a later influx of Polynesians who built the Moai.

At 17, I was fascinated by his descriptions of the Island and its inhabitants, both animate and inanimate. I remember that the book was beautifully written, his results regarding the Inca settlers compelling and his radical anthropological conclusions both sound and appropriate. I vowed that I would one day travel there to see its glories, walk in my hero’s footsteps and stare Moai in their eye sockets. Thus, while sitting in Madrid Airport on December 8^th2015, about a week before arriving in Easter Island, I picked up Aku Aku with joy and began rereading the book that had inspired my journey almost 40 years ago.

One hundred and eight pages later and less than half finished, I put the book down, bitterly disappointed at both its tone and content. My hero’s attitude towards the Islanders now seemed superior and even racist at times, his hypotheses and multiple unsubstantiated assumptions regarding the early settlers unusual and his results sketchy. Moreover, the book was badly written, littered with word for word conversations that he had had with various characters that appeared largely apocryphal, and all the while scattered with trite and prejudicial reflections on the Islanders and Island life. Nevertheless, as with all books I start but don’t finish, probably somewhat less than one in 40, I did read the final chapter. This did nothing to change my views, his conclusions appearing biased and unconvincing. Ah well, I can only suppose that everything we see, hear and read is coloured by both our present state and previous experience and that our views on any subject therefore necessarily change with time.

Anaena Beach

Nevertheless, I did get to walk in Thor’s footsteps a week later and cycled every road the Island had to offer. No south sea paradise this, but rather a quirky and somber place, despite its climate. Geographically, it’s roughly triangular with three volcanoes dominating the landscape. It has no port, a single beach and only a couple of landing sites for even a small boat, due to its rocky shoreline and constant surf. The Airport was built in the 1960s and the runway extended by NASA to accommodate the Space Shuttle, should it ever have needed to make an emergency landing in the Pacific area. The Capital, Hanga Roa, is really a loose collection of largely wooden and tin roofed houses, although tourism is beginning to change the architectural landscape with a western style hotel plonked in the centre of town.

 Sombre horses

Vegetation is sparse and the road system rutted and potholed, making cycling an interesting, though very rewarding and pleasant, pastime. The area outside the Capital Hanga Roa is sparsely populated and I couldn’t help noticing that dead animals appeared to be left to rot by the wayside. I saw more than one complete equine skeleton, while the sight and smell of a two day old corpse of a large cow was appalling. In contrast, the beach at Anakena, complete with palm trees and a row of Moai looking inland was a perfect site for a picnic, swim and sunbathing session.

Come in Mercury...

In my short stay, I found the people reserved, generally unsmiling and even sometimes rude, as on the day the scuba diving shop manager berated me for driving at about 10km hour by the seafront while waving to his friend hurtling by in a truck. Overall, my initial impression was that the people were somewhat like the Moais themselves, stern, unsmiling and a bit sad at times, sitting on their Island thousands of miles away from the rest of the World. Nevertheless, I would have travelled twice around the Earth to see the impressive and extraordinary rock-strewn landscape and the Moais. As an aside, I also saw the shy planet Mercury for my first time in the Easter Island twilight, as beautiful a sight as any I could ever wish to see. A fantastic journey to an Island that will probably be unrecognisable in 20 years.

Me and the happy campers.

And there it would have ended; me happy to have visited Easter Island, though worried that my views on T.H. were the product of ageing, jaundiced and crabby mind, except for the fact that I randomly picked up a book in a Tahitian bookshop. The Happy Isles of Oceania, by Paul Theroux, describes his journey through Polynesia in the late 1980’s. I was immediately attracted to his chapters on Easter Island, which were candid and informative. However, more interesting still were his and others views on Thor. It appears that my boyhood hero is now essentially considered as incompetent, opinionated, amateurish, contemptuous and offensive, while a review of his book in the journal Archaeology called it “a litany of hypocrisy, superciliousness and prejudice against Polynesians in general and the inhabitants of Easter Island...”

So how does that leave me feeling? Vindicated for putting down Aku Aku, yes. but I still have a little hole in my heart, a bit like that feeling I used get after finishing up with a girlfriend, sad but glad.