Jerry Down Under

24th February: An amazing sunrise, a nice breakfast, and a good day

2008-02-25T03:20:00.000-08:00

I wake early this morning. Last night, the guy in the shop / cafe said that they open at 8 am. It's 6:30 now. I'm tired, but not uncomfortable. And the view from this particular bedroom window is fantastic. There's a spectacular sunrise developing and, although I'm tired, I get the camera from the boot of the car and start snapping. Behind the car is the surf lifesaver clubhouse. I climb the stairs and take some photos. My eyes are still tired and won't easily stay open, but the morning breeze is bringing me to life. I go to different vantage points, walk down to the beach, and take photos of everything and nothing. After a night like last night, this morning is fantastic. I'm growing to like Riversdale.

I return to the car and recline, eyes closed, occasionally drifting in and out of sleep. It's a relaxing morning, but I'm hungry. At 8 o'clock, I go back to the cafe and, sure enough, they're open. I order two coffees and a large breakfast. I sit at one of the tables outside and drink one coffee while I'm waiting for breakfast. Occasional passers by wave at me as they drive or jog or walk. What a friendly place. My breakfast arrives, and Riversdale serves up another welcome surprise. Good bacon. In much of New Zealand, the bacon is more like fried slices of ham. But this is nice, proper bacon, like I'm used to in the UK. The sausage is the size of my leg, and nicer than most of the sausages I've had since I got here, but it's still not as good as back in the UK. Still, this is the best cooked breakfast I've had in New Zealand, and it's about to get better.

The girl who works at the cafe comes out with her breakfast, and asks if she can join me. She's really pretty and has a smile like an angel, so I try not to blush as she sits down. Narelle is 19, has grown up in Riversdale and loves it here. She's been living with her boyfriend further north, but he's in the army and away on tour in South-East Asia, so she's moved back here for a while to help with the cafe, which her dad took over a few months ago. Narelle is friendly and funny and laid back, and her boyfriend is a lucky guy. We talk about Riversdale, and we both worry about what will happen to this community when all the new buyers have bought houses and land here. Up on the hill, some brand new tarmack has already been laid - the roads that will form the main arteries of the new estate that will be built there over the next few years. We talk about travel. We talk about lots of things, and she tells me it's a shame I wasn't here on Thursday for the Rat Club.

The Rat Club is a weekly gathering at the cafe - people congregate with beers and just socialise in the chilled surroundings of the cafe. It's named the Rat Club after a rat that used to run across the phone lines at the same time every evening. The rat eventually died, but the Rat Club lives on. I need to see this Rat Club, and decide to come back at Easter weekend which (I believe) is soon.

Narelle winces as she drinks some kind of berry juice - it's not popular with the customers which obviously means that the staff have to drink it. She tries bravely, but can't finish it. Having spent too long chatting, she gets up, and returns to work, flashing that delighful smile again.

I go back to the car, check the map, and decide on a route. But first I'm going to return to Castlepoint. The weather is better today, and I want to see the place again. I don't spend much time there, but I'm glad I went. The sea and wind is still more stormy than at Riversdale, but I follow the road right to the end, and see the 'reef'. It's a towering wall of old sea bed, full of thousands of years of sea shells. There's a warning sign and a small memorial testifying to the people who've met misfortune here in the past.

So obviously I clamber up the reef to take photos. The ocean on the other side is mighty indeed. The weaves surge and plunge and boil over the rocks, and a fall into that water would be very bad news. But I'm safe enough. There's plenty of grip on all the sea shells, and the wind is strong enough to flap my shirt but certainly no danger of blowing me around.

After a few minutes I start walking back to the car. I still don't visit the lighthouse, because I know I'll be back in the area in a few weeks. Instead, I look at some of the charter fishing boats, some more fossilised shells, and a cross bearing lots of discarded footwear.

Then I'm on the road again. I retrace yesterday's route and detour to Lake Wairarapa, which is big but an anti climax after what I've experienced in the last couple of days. I persevere for another 40 minutes to Ocean Beach which vast, and almost deserted apart from two anglers and three people riding motocross bikes up and down. The beach is so large remote, and such a strange surface (it seems almost like ash and fine grit and cinder) that I have no problem with the thought of motocross bike there. They're not ruining the beach experience for anyone. It's such a strange and dramatic place that I'm tempted to stay longer, but I'm thinking of the toruous drive ahead, and the time that I have to return the car.

So I'm retracing my steps again, back into Wairarapa, back over the mountains, back down into Upper Hutt and then Lower Hutt. Back along the edge of Wellington bay, and back to the hotel, where I unload the car and then take it back to the depot. Then it's the long walk back to the hotel. It's been a tiring weekend, and a remarkably long time on the road, considering the relatively short distances I've travelled. But I've found a new favourite place - Riversdale - and I'm looking forward to going back.

After a shower and some food, I get an early night and sleep very well indeed.

23rd February: Into the Wairarapa

2008-02-24T03:38:00.000-08:00

Saturday morning, and I should be waking up and getting ready for the Tongariro Crossing, but the weather put an end to those plans. I still have a hire car booked, so I'm going to visit the Wairarapa region. I have a cooked breakfast in the hotel, and walk across the city to pick up the car. It's a scorching day, and I drink nearly a litre of water just in 40 minutes of walking. But the paperwork is straightforward, and 15 minutes later I'm driving back to the hotel to pack all my bags into the car. It's hot work, so the windows are wound right down as I get on my way. I get on Highway 2, driving alongside the bay and out past Lower Hutt, Upper Hutt, and on into the mountains 30 minutes north of Wellington. Highway 2 twists and turns up the steep sides of the Rimutaka mountain range, and down the other side, into the broad plains of the Wairarapa, and wine country.

I have a rough idea that I want to head to some of the small towns on the Pacific coast, but that's as far as my plan goes. As usual, I'm on a flying visit to get a feel for the place, so I don't stop for long in any of the towns along the way. I pass through Featherston, detour to Martinborough, then back to Greytown (which looks like a nice place), Carterton and Masterton, the biggest city in the Wairarapa region. I drive on.

I'm heading for two places on my map - Castlepoint and Riversdale. As I leave Masterton, I take a right turn off Highway 2 (which just looks like a normal UK urban A road) and drive towards Tauweru. The roads become smaller and more rural and, although it takes a long time, it's a nice drive. I come to a junction showing left to Castlepoint and right to Riversdale. I turn left to Castlepoint, for no particular reason. Half an hour later, I'm there. It's a small, small place. There's just one small road into Castlepoint, and Castlepoint is where it ends. On the right are some small houses sprinkled up the hill, and a small shop looking out to sea. On the left, is a small car park and then, down a few steps, is the beach.

The sky is light grey but the sea is lighter, the strong onshore wind and the tumbling waves churning the water into a foam. I park on the small car park overlooking the beach, and walk along the sand - hard and damp from the spray coming off the ocean. It's still warm in spite of the wind, but today is not a day for paddling. Standing and staring at the sea, it looks angry and unforgiving - roaring and pounding the shore like a boxer pummelling a punch bag. If Neptune is in the area, he's oblivious to me standing there. He's in a bad mood and he's taking it out on the beach.

Away and to my right, there's Castlepoint Lighthouse. It's a local landmark and attraction and I want to walk up to see it. But first I want to decide whether to stay here tonight. I'm not feeling any immediate affinity for Castlepoint. I leave the beach, climb a few steps back to the car park, and cross the road to the shop. It's sparse inside. Right ahead of me, behind a small counter, is a small kitchen. To the left is a small seated cafe area. To the right, various shelves stocking essentials for the local community. I walk to the counter and ask the lady for some local knowledge. I want somewhere to have a couple of beers and maybe some banter, and then somewhere to stay nearby. I'm out of luck. The nearest bar is at the Whakataki Hotel - a large wooden pub with bedrooms. It's about 4 km away, on the road that brought me in and, although it caught my eye, it didn't fire my imagination. I walk back to the car and check the route to Riversdale. It's not far.

It takes about 30 minutes to get there. As I drive in, the first thing I notice is the number of for sale signs. Then a small hut, set up as a mini estate agent. Its wall is filled with adverts for plots of land for sale. What's wrong with Riversdale?

As I drive through, it looks like a nice place. In fact, it looks very nice. It's bigger than Castlepoint, but it's still small, with just two roads passing through to the far end of the village. I arrive at a small parking area overlooking the sea. The waves are still noisy, but much less angry than in Castlepoint. On the beach, the surf lifesavers are packing away their flags and safety equipment. Swimmers are emerging from the sea. It's early evening, and daytime activities are coming to an end.

There's a small shop - a bit bigger than Castlepoint but with much more character. The kitchen is bigger and there are delicious smells wafting out. There's a steady trickle of people in and out, and it feels much more like a little community. I walk in and ask the same questions as before - I'm looking for somewhere to have some beers and somewhere to sleep. The young man and young lady are both helpful but not hopeful. There's a large wedding on the edge of town (I could see the marquee from the beach car park), and it means that much of the village is there. It also means that most of the rental accommodation is taken.

But, after some head-scratching, I'm in luck with the beers - at the far end of town (not very far) is a golf club that has no particular dress code and opens its doors to everyone. Then, suddenly, I might even be in luck for somewhere to sleep. One of the customers in the shop rings her husband and asks him to show me around the holiday accommodation that they have empty. It's a stroke of luck. Five minutes later, I'm being shown round "The Orange Scruff" as the house is affectionately called. The outside walls are as orange as orange can be, but it's not particularly scruffy inside. No frills, but no scruffiness either. But it's a holiday house with two bedrooms and it's more than I need. At $140 dollars for one night, I decline. I'll sleep in the car. So I go back to the car park overlooking the beach, get changed out of my shorts and flip-flops, into my jeans and skate shoes, and walk back to the golf club.

There's quite a crowd of people in there, drinking, chatting and watching the New Zealand vs England cricket. In less than five minutes I'm invited to join a group of people, and they're my friends for the evening. Onslow, Sharon (Onslow's wife), and Sharon (someone else's wife, but he's sitting at the next table, with somebody talking him to death) are friendly, happily drunk, and laughing freely. Another guy (Mick) joins us with his wife, and I spend several hours drinking and chatting and having a good time, until I decide it's time for me to go back to the car. I leave the warmth and light and noise of the clubhouse, walk out of the car park gates, turn right and walk down a short unlit road toward the beach. It's midnight, the village is silent, and by the time I reach the T-junction and turn left along Blue Pacific Parade, I realise I've emerged into a rare and special night.

I'm walking along a small residential road, lined on both sides by widely spaced houses, bushes and palm trees. Behind the houses on my left, running parallel with this road, is the only other road through the village. Behind the houses on my right is the Pacific ocean. I can hear it still churning against the beach, but it sounds different now. Quieter. Calmer. The wind is strong but still warm. Small gusts flick and ruffle my clothes and whistle softly in my ears. There are no streetlights anywhere but, above the ocean, the full moon is bright enough to cast clear shadows across the road. The rustling trees, the swaying palms, the telegraph poles are silhouetted against the sky. What a night! I walk slowly, taking in the dark but clear surroundings. In the reduced light, I relish the sound of the Pacific, the occasional smell of flowers, the feeling of the wind on my face. Too soon, I find myself approaching the car park, and the hire car - my bed for the night. But I can't shut out the night yet. I sit on the picnic bench in front of the car, and look out at the mighty ocean for a while, until finally I have to sleep. I leave the windows slightly open, recline the seat, and drift off to sleep with the fresh sea air rippling softly through the car.

6th February: Waitangi Day

2008-02-06T00:42:00.000-08:00

Today is Waitangi Day - a national public holiday in New Zealand, celebrating the signing of the Treaty Of Waitangi. My morning begins with a few hours in the office, making up for the time I spent yesterday looking at apartments. At lunchtime, I head out to the first of two cultural events that I plan to visit.

It's a celebration of New Zealand culture and, suitably enough, it's being held in Waitangi Park in Wellington. Waitangi park is a recently refreshed area of grassland, well maintained for general recreation and relaxation. Around the grass there are other recreational facilities - a skate park, basketball courts, children's playground, cafe, and for the ladies, a Movenpick ice cream parlour. There is also a small stream that, for many years, has been hidden away in an underground cilvert. It has recently been brought back to the surface, routed over gravel beds, and has a planted margin to fiilter and clean the water before it flows into the adjacent bay.

The event itself is well attended and very much a family occasion. There are various cultural, craft and food stalls, a woman telling a story to a group of enthralled children, and a stage at the far end of the grass where a Maori choir is singing. The sound is unmistakeably pacific island music, and it sounds like sunshine friendliness.

There are skateboarders practicing their tricks in the park (they've been there every time I've walked by in the last few weeks - through into the evening), a group of people playing basketball, and a couple of graffiti artists showing off their considerable skills. I suddenly become aware that the choir's performance has finished. It's not the lack of singing wafting across the grass that alerts me. It's the distressing noises being made by the next performer. He's doing a number of more classical songs, and not very successfully. He has a good voice, but he's hitting too many bad notes. I put it down to nerves or adrenaline, but it's enough to move me on to the next event.

I ask a few passers-by for directions to the Wellington Velodrome. It seems nobody has heard of it, but someone in an ice cream queue hears me say the name of the event, and she steps in and gives me directions. I set off towards One Love.

It's a twenty minute walk under the hot sun that I've become accustomed to, and then a queue to get into the venue. Reaching the entrance gates, they're checking bags and preventing people from taking alcohol into the venue. Preposterously, a few feet ahead, two small children (neither of them are school age) are having to drink the two bottles of juice that their mum has in her bag. It seems it's not enough for the children to drink some of it, just to prove it's not alcohol. They won't be allowed in until the liquid has been poured away, or the children have drunk every drop. There's fairly widespread disapproval in the rest of the queue, and even the marshall right next to us thinks it's wrong. But the jobsworth won't change her mind. The mother moves to one side, and the rest of us resume our passage through the gates. The marshall pretends not to hear the disparaging comments coming her way.

Once through the gates, I walk up the hill, I reach the velodrome itself. It's an outdoor, concrete surfaced oval bike track. Within the oval, there's a large stage with a DJ playing reggae music, and the usual array of festival facilities - food stalls, drinks stalls, various crafts stalls, and people milling around and enjoying the music. There's an inflatable tent housing a free disco (people are given cordless headphones and can then go in and dance with the others. It's a strange sight. They're all enjoying whatever is playing but, to the onlookers, it's a load of people dancing in silence.

The banked turns are too steep to be a comfortable place to sit, but outside the track (where the crowd would normally watch the races) there are crowds of people sitting eating & drinking and enjoying the day. Thankfully, the trees provide some shade too, and it's a comfortable place to be. Various acts come and go - primarily dub and reggae. There's another Maori band who perform some more songs that sound like sunshine and friendliness. It's great to listen to. Then a small group of young men come up on stage in traditional dress and perform an impressive haka.

They file offstage, and another DJ arrives, playing more reggae. I don't mind reggae, but I've reached my limit now, and the event finishes in about 90 minutes (6:30pm). So I walk back into Wellington. Waitangi Park is almost empty now - stalls are being packed away, and it's returning to it's normal role as a peaceful place for people to sit and read on the grass, or play with their kids. I walk on, past the bars along the waterfront, and back to the hotel.

Waitangi Day has been good, but it's really emphasised how much 'smaller' some things in New Zealand are. One Love felt like a near miss. It had all the ingredients that you'd find in a UK festival, and it had the weather. It just didn't have enough people.

Nevertheless, I've enjoyed my first Waitangi Day, and it seems that the rest of New Zealand has felt the same way. It's been the most successful for years.

2nd February: Wellington Rugby Sevens

2008-02-03T00:40:00.000-08:00

It's Wellington Sevens day! The media has been going nuts about this for the past week. I've been excited since I picked up the tickets yesterday. But the big thing about the Wellington Rugby Sevens is fancy dress. I'm going along with Gary - a mate from work, but we need costumes. Gary has stuff to do, at his house about an hour away, so it's my job to choose and bring the costumes. I'm on my way to meet Michelle, to rummage through her theatrical costume cupboard.

It's a 15 minute journey to Khandallah, and I arrive 45 minutes before I'm due to meet Michelle. But there's a small cafe right next to the church hall where we'll meet, so I get a coffee and read a property magazine, looking for a rental section. There isn't one, so I leaf blankly through page after page of houses for sale.

Looking occasionally out of the window, I see a succession of amateur thespians strolling into the church hall. I can't see the costumes or props that they're carrying in various bags and boxes, but I'm guessing from their appearance that they're aliens from Star Trek, or freakish creatures from Lord Of The Rings. An ambitious production indeed!

Discarding the property magazine, I go to the small supermarket across the road and buy a magazine. I wanted motorbikes or mountain bikes but they had neither, so it's New Scientist. A bit more intellectual than I wanted, but better than property pages. I go back to the cafe and sit down with a cup of tea. It's a pleasant way to spend some time - the cafe smells of fresh coffee and the girls gossipping at the next desk keep me amused by the intensity of their discussion about Coronation Street.

Michelle arrives, I finish my coffee and we walk to the costume room. I also find out about the Klingon / Lord Of The Ring characters. It turns out that they're not actors at all. On Saturday mornings, the church hall throws opens its doors to computer gamers in the area. I laugh. It all makes sense now, and it should have struck me as odd that so many actors could boast full Klingon hairstyles without needing wigs. For all I know, one of them might have written the Wikipedia page about Klingons.

Michelle turns into a whirlwind of ideas and a deluge of words. She dives into boxes and bags, lunges into hangers and racks full of finery, and thrusts all kinds of costumes in my direction. I'm sure she could play in there for hours, but she has to take her young son to a birthday party and I have to get back to Wellington and get changed. So we settle on a couple of costumes and go our separate ways. Back at the hotel, I transform myself into a rather dapper pirate. I have shiny electric blue knee-length trousers, some white socks that I bought on the way back from the train station, and a very fancy blue jacket that could also be worn by a town cryer. I have a white linen shirt and Michelle has provided us with a couple of false frilly collars. I'm glad the rest of Wellington is in fancy dress too.

I put Gary's costume in a bag, and set off to the bar next to the train station, where we've arranged to meet. The train station is like nothing I've ever seen before. The place is crowded but it takes probably fifteen minutes before I see somebody who isn't in fancy dress. The costumes range from the simple to the elaborate. There's an amazing amount of creativity in many of them. One guy has made a lego-man costume, complete with lego-style hands that look like they're just the right size to hold a beer. There's a troupe of drag queens. There are lots of spidermen. Soldiers, doctors, nurses, firemen. All out in force. There's a cow, a cat, two or three chickens, an emu. Then there are loads of people who don't seem to have come as anything in particular, but they've dressed up. Or painted themselves. There are some people painted orange, some people painted black, some people painted white. If this is just the train station, lord knows what the stadium will be like!

Gary arrives as I finish my second beer, and gets changes in the toilets. We head across the road to a backpacker hostel that i know has coin operated lockers. We're in luck- there's one left. Coins in, combination entered, door locked, and we're on our way. Two pirates strolling through the city centre, joining the throng of every kind of fancy dress imaginable. This is going to be quite an experience.

And so it proves. The capacity at the Westpac stadium is 35,000 and I estimate that 30,000 are in fancy dress. The facilities are good, beer is on sale all around the concourse and is flowing freely. Many people seem to just spend the whole time in the concourse and not bother watching any of the games. There again, most of the people in the seats don't bother watching the game either, and that includes Gary and me. We're just watching the crowd. There's a group of people dressed as a bunch of children's crayons. There are vikings. Cowboys, Indians, American football players etc. There's a group of girls in revealing Uncle Sam costumes, who are just walking around trying to be seen. It works. They're regularly on the big screen, and will no doubt be in tomorrow's papers. Every so often, some part of the crowd starts chanting "Colonel! Colonel!" and pointing. Following the pointing arms, I see a chap who looks remarkably like Colonel Sanders. It turns out that he's well known around Wellington, and chants can often be heard in the street as he walks by. Today he's wearing a waistcoat and white shirt, and with his natural Colonel Sanders appearance, he clearly enjoys the chants as much as the crowd does. It's a unique crowd and a unique event.

And, as bizarre as the rest of the stadium is, the toilets are surreal. I walk into one and see the unmistakeable black silhouette of Zorro, standing facing a urinal. It's bizarre sight, but is beaten shortly afterwards when a beer bottle walks in. I trust he's not desperate - it looks like a costume that will take some time to 'negotiate'.

The whole day is a huge party, climaxing (inside the stadium at least) when New Zealand beat Samoa in a closely fought final. The place goes mental!

With the inconvenience of the rugby behind us, the crowd is disgorged into the warm Wellington night, to party the night away. Gary decides to get changed, so I move on to the Loaded Hog and have some more refreshments. When he arrives, we stroll over to the bars of Courtenay Place. The rest of the night is just a big party. People in fancy dress everywhere, and a city full of bonhomie. There's no way to adequately describe the day, but it certainly has to be experienced in fancy dress.

I'll be back at the Wellington Sevens next year.

1st February: Rugby Sevens teams parade through Wellington

2008-02-02T00:39:00.000-08:00

The excitement is mounting today. I've been looking on Trademe.co.nz for a ticket to the rugby sevens. But it's a website aimed at Kiwi residents, so I need a Wellington address and landline to register. The hotel details won't cut it, so I can't register, which means I can't bid for tickets.

Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise. A woman at work has advertised two tickets available for tomorrow. I email her, find that the tickets are available, and the deal is done. Gary, a new work mate, says he fancies taking the other ticket. Sorted!

At lunchtime, some of us leave the office and stroll down to Lambton Quay, the main shopping street through the centre of Wellington. We're going to watch the traditional parade - the teams are driven slowly through Wellington on a succession of floats, cheered on by an enthusiastic crowd. I cheer all the British home nations. I cheer the Kiwis. I cheer the Cook Islands and Kenya and South Africa. I fact, I cheer all the teams. But mainly England.

The crowds are large and the pavements are packed. It's a good-natured affair, partly because of the weather (hot and sunny, as usual) and the teams throwing foam toys and sweets out into the crowds. A miniature foam rugby ball flies towards me and I catch it casually. A bite-sized Moro chocolate bar arcs overhead, and I noncholantly pluck it from the air. Another one hits me in the chest. Not so noncholant, but I pick it up nevertheless.

Each of the floats has some kind of 'performance' walking along in front, but England has the best one. Austin Powers is dancing to some appropriate music, and he's the man! He has all the moves, and the crowd loves it.

Back at the office, Gary and I are wrestling with ideas about possible fancy dress. It's difficult at such short notice, and all of the fancy dress shops for miles around have been cleaned out. But we're rescued by an angel called Michelle. Michelle is a colleague, and is also very keen on amateur dramatics. We can pick something from her local theatrical society's costume department. This is all coming together rather well!

After work, back in my room, I watch the evening's matches on TV. At least half of the coverage is shots of the crowd, and it looks like a huge party. I can't wait until tomorrow!

29th January: First day at work

2008-01-30T00:45:00.000-08:00

In New Zealand, there's no provision for suing somebody if you have an accident. If you're injured and can't work, or you need particular treatment to help your recovery, or even if you need specialist support for the rest of your life, there's nobody you can sue. Your teeth were knocked out by an opponent on the rugby pitch? Need expensive dental treatment? You can't sue the opponent.

Instead, you claim from a central fund, administered by ACC - the Accident Compensation Corporation. All New Zealanders are covered. Residents are covered. Tourists are covered. I'm covered, and I haven't paid anything into the scheme.

As it happens, I'm not injured, but there's another reason why ACC is significant for me - today is my first day of work in New Zealand, and I'm working at ACC.

Tuesday is a strange day to start work, but it makes sense. Over the weekend, while I was at the Wellington Cup, a new IT system was going live at ACC. I was going to start yesterday, but I knew I'd be a distraction. There was no pressing reason for me to start work yesterday, so we agreed to postpone it. Today's the day. My alarm goes off and, for the first time in 6 months, I have to get ready for work.

The dress code means I'm fine with smart trousers & shoes, and a work shirt. No jacket required. No tie. Lovely. So I have a light breakfast and a 10 minute walk from the hotel to the office.

The day is familiar to anyone who starts a new office job. I'm welcomed aboard, introduced to a few people, shown to my desk, and start reading things about fire escapes etc. I meet with one of the senior managers and my role is outlined to me. It's slightly different from what was described last week - I'll be planning the business readiness and the post-implementation support for an IT release later this year. It's a welcome surprise.

Then, back to my desk and I'm introduced to numerous more people whose names I'll get to know in the coming days and weeks. I set about reading various strategy documents, logging onto email, getting access to some of the other systems that I need. I start getting to know some of the people around me. I'm shown where the stationery cupboard is.

Yep, today is my first day of work in New Zealand, and I feel right at home.

26th January: Wellington Cup day

2008-01-27T04:14:00.000-08:00

There's been a big build up to today. The annual running of the Wellington Cup seems to be the New Zealand equivalent of Royal Ascot. The racecourse is on the outskirts of the city and only a train ride away. So that's my plan for today. Arriving at the ticket counter, the return ticket includes entry to the course. This is pretty much as easy as it could be.

Just after lunch, the train station is full of people all going the same way. For the first few minutes, the line goes along the shore of Wellington Bay and gives some great views. The water is vivide blue, under an equally blue sky. The bright sunshine sparkles on the surface, and picks out three small white sailing boats in the middle of the bay. It's another fantastic day.

But soon the track heads left and out into the hilly suburbs towards Upper Hutt, and the scenery becomes more mundane. It's a forty minute ride to the station right next to Trentham Racecourse. The train doors open and there's a fresh flood of people, to add to the sea of people already at the course.

All the beautiful people in Wellington are out. There are hats and dresses and cleavages and shapely legs. There are also some regrettable sights, but not many of them. As I walk through the gates and into the throng, I hear someone commentating on a parade of lovelies, all hoping to win the first prize of a BMW convertible for a year. I've no idea where this parade is, but I'm assured by the commentator that each of the ladies is beautiful and, looking around me, I'm prepared to believe it.

But I'm more interested in refreshment. It's fiercely hot and I go in search of a cold beer. There are plenty of bars around, so I don't queue for long before I have a bottle of nice cold beer in one hand, and a bottle of equally cold water in the other. I drink the water first and, savouring the beer, I find somewhere to sit and watch the next race.

I'm actually not much of a horse racing fan, so I spend as much time watching the crowds - all shapes and sizes, a broad spectrum of social classes, and varying shades of sun tan. Killing time between races, I decide to place some bets. Nothing big because I'm a rubbish gambler. But in my first race, I bet $20 and I get $30 back. $10 dollars profit probably matches the biggest win of my life. So I go back and bet again. $15 dollars this time, and I get $20 back. Woohoo! My third race is the big one - the Wellington Cup itself. I bet $25 on a few different horses, to be placed. I win $3. My fourth race I win nothing, but it's memorable nonetheless.

Just ahead of me, two young ladies are tottering around in high heels and daring cocktail dresses. They're both pretty, with curves and bulges flamboyantly on display. Most of them in the right places. Not paying much attention to where they're going, one of them bumps into me and says sorry. I reassure her that it's not the worst thing that's ever happened to me, and she immediately identifies my English accent. Suddenly I'm being treated like Hugh Grant.

Ally and Sam are two young ladies in their early twenties. They've been here all day and they're in an exuberant state of refereshment. I spend the next 15 minutes facing a hail of questions - how long have I been here? Why New Zealand? Where are my mates? Hearing that I've come alone, they promise to be my mates for the day. It's a kind gesture but I'm not sure I can handle it. Already they have my head spinning and I suspect that, with a couple more drinks inside them, they'll be transformed into entertaining lovelies into lurching liabilities. They need to go to the toilet, and tell me to wait here for them. I'm happy to wait, even though I'm pretty sure they won't be back. They're very genuine girls, and I know they intend to return, but I'm sure they'll be distracted by any number of things and, when they suddenly remember their Hugh Grant, they'll have forgotten where they left him.

And so it transpires. I see them once more, later in the afternoon. They're walking along the front of the stand, and they do indeed look like lurching liabilities. But they're still enjoying themselves, and the encounter was fun while it lasted.

I decide not to stay until the end, preferring to beat the worst of the rush back into Wellington. Many other people have had the same thought and the platform is full. The wait is oppressive in the afternoon heat, and it's a relief to get onto a cool train. The journey back is uneventful, apart from one girl who, having reached her stop, steps off the train and throws up immediately. There's a round of cheers and applause from the carriage, and an acknowledgement that she must have done well to keep everything inside until she was outside.

Arriving back in Wellington, I decide to go to Molly Malone's the Irish bar that I visited several times the first time I was in Wellington. I know they'll have a band playing. Unfortunately, after an overly long session of tuning up, once they start playing I realise they're not worth the wait. Deciding that I've been entertained enough for one day, I start walking back to the hotel. But the day has one more bit of entertainment in store for me.

As I walk along the walkway with the bay on my right and Frank Kitts Park on my left, and a clear starlit sky above, there's a group of three people walking towards me. They seem good natured enough, and one of them detours in my direction. A small version of Johnny Depp, he walks towards me with arms open wide in a clear "hug me" position. I decide "What the hell, I'm here for adventure" so we have a drunken man-hug and some back smacking. There's no malice or threat here.

"See them?" he asks, pointing at his mates. "They're b*ggers"
"Shame." I sympathise. "It looks like you're stuck with them"
"Ah, you're English?" Johnny asks
"Yes. Sorry about that" I reply.

Without a word, Johnny walks one step past me so that we're shoulder blade to shoulder blade, sinks into a mild telemark position and offers his hand behind him for a reverse low-five. I oblige. "Sweet" he nods, and without looking back he walks on and rejoins his friends.

It's a strangely fitting end to the day.

25th January: Hurrah! My Work Permit is granted!

2008-01-26T04:12:00.000-08:00

Back to the Immigration Office today - it's the only thing on my mind. I queue for twenty minutes in a sweltering office, and reach the enquiry desk just before lunch. There's not much I can do, apart from ask whether they've read my application - if they need any more information I can provide it straight away. It also keeps me at the front of their minds, or at least not too far towards the back of their minds.

The girl on reception checks the screen, and sees that there's been no more movement on my application. It's been logged but nobody has picked it up yet. She checks with a colleague who has just been speaking to another customer. It turns out this colleague is one of the Immigration Officers. She asks me to take a seat, and she'll be out to see me in ten minutes. She lied. She's back out in five.

She has my envelope with her, containing various documents that I provided. She has my passport. And she has information. She's checked my application, and she's approved my work visa! Handing me my passport, she opens it at the page where - gleaming like a cartoon treasure chest - the work visa has been glued in. After the turmoil of the last 44 hours, this seems like such a disproportionately small transaction. But it's huge. It means I can start work. It means I can look for an apartment. It means that the adventure that started 6 months ago when I left Capital One, is finally coming together.

24th January: What to do?

2008-01-25T04:11:00.000-08:00

Since 4pm yesterday, my mind has been churning. I have ten days before my job offer expires, but my temporary visa application might take another 45 days to be granted. If that's the case, not only will I lose the job offer I have, but it will be another 6 weeks before I can work anywhere. I start thinking about bringing forward my aspirations for a helicopter licence. I visit Helipro in Wellington again, to get more information. I ring Wanaka helicopters. I figure out how long my money will last, and I decide I might just be able to at least get my private pilot's licence. There's no way I can afford the full commercial training.

I go to the Immigration Office, but I don't have any luck. They can only tell me that the normal timeframes are 20 to 30 days, but they quote 45 days as the maximum. There's nobody I can speak to.

So my mind churns for the rest of the day.

23rd January: Picton back to Wellington, and a heart attack courtesy of New Zealand Immigration

2008-01-24T04:05:00.000-08:00

The alarm is a rude awakening indeed. I was more tired than I realised last night, and it's hard getting out of bed this morning. But I have a lot to do, and I really don't want to miss the early ferry. So in twenty minutes, I'm showered, dressed, I've dropped the apartment keys in the letterbox, and I'm driving to the ferry terminal. It's only a couple of minutes, but with the windows wound down, the cool morning air is refreshing and welcome. The car park outside the terminal is empty, and I park right outside the door. With no queue at the desk, it takes less than a minute to buy my ticket. Then I'm back in the car, and driving back out of the passenger car park across the train lines and round to the vehicle park. I'm the fourth car here.

Over the next 40 minutes, many more cars arrive, and plenty of lorries. Sitting here with the windows open, flicking through some leaflets that I've picked up in recent days, I'm starting to wake up. But it's still a relief to get on the ferry, lock the car and go up for a coffee. The breakfast doesn't look like much fun, so I stay hungry. I sit for a while in one of the relaxation rooms, and start reading through the form for the New Zealand Qualifications Authority. To support my full Residency application, I need the NZQA to assess my qualification which falls inconveniently between a Bachelors and a Masters degree. The form is lengthy, but I have all the information they're asking for.

The 3 hour crossing passes more quickly than it has in the past, but I don't know why. Arriving in Wellington, the air has gone from cool to warm. It's going to be yet another hot day. I drive back to the hotel, park the car, and walk to the NZQA offices on The Terrace.

The young lady on reception is helpful enough with the questions I have, and I sit down and fill in the rest of the form. While I'm doing that, the main lady comes back to Reception and I chat to her a little. It's lucky that I do. She's clearly exasperated by the younger lady's inability to remember information or instructions and, within a couple of minutes, I'm exasperated myself. A lot of the information she gave me was wrong, but the older lady sorts me out, accepts my form and certificates, and gently relieves me of several hundred dollars. In return for all this money, she gives me the disheartening news that the NZQA has a large backlog and they're still processing applications that they received in November. It could be 6 weeks before my papers even rise to the top of the pile! My consolation is that the temporary work visa should be granted by the end of this week.

The rest of the day I walk around exploring more of Wellington, and I think about where I might live. My job offer expires in 11 days, but I've given all my paperwork into the agencies that need it and I've been reassured that visa applications can be turned around in a day, so I'm fairly relaxed.

Until about 4pm. At 4pm I receive a text from New Zealand Immigration. They confirm that they received my visa application on 17th January. They aim to proces it within 45 days.

22nd January: Tres chicas de Santiago

2008-01-23T04:23:00.000-08:00

Looking out of the window this morning, the weather has certainly taken a turn for the worse. Last night's rain is still here, even heavier, and the cloud is low. I can hardly see any of Mount Cook. I go for breakfast which is ok, but nothing special for such an expensive place. Then it's back to the room, pack my bags, load up the car, and manouevre my way out of the crowded car park.

This morning is Sir Edmund Hillary's funeral, way up north in Auckland. But the Sir Edmund Hillary centre at Mount Cook is a natural gathering place for people to pay their respects, and the place is getting busy. There will be a memorial service and then the funeral service in Auckland will be displayed on a large screen in the cafeteria. This is a momentous and sombre day for New Zealand.

On any other day the funeral of Hone Tuwhare - a much loved Maori poet, he transcended cultural bounds and became simply a much loved poet. But today, while Hone is being buried not far from Auckland in Kaikohe, most New Zealand eyes and TV cameras are pointed at Sir Ed's state funeral.

But I won't see any of it. I have, as usual, an awfully long drive ahead.

Driving along the road next to Lake Pukaki, I listen to the radio coverage. It really does seem like the nation is standing still. Except, that is, for a lone cyclist - braving the downpour and riding who knows where. He's one of many that I've seen in the last few days, with panniers on their bikes and clearly cycle-touring. It seems a popular activity in the South Island. But I don't envy this chap. I know how long this road is, and this will only get him back to the main road. As I approach and pass, he sticks his thumb out to hitch a ride. I smile. If I had a big enough car or van, I'd stop. As it is, I just drive on.

The radio commentary continues, and it nags away at my conscience without me knowing why. Eventually, having driven at speed for nearly twenty minutes and still only covered half the distance back to the main road, I turn round and head back to the Sir Edmund Hillary centre. This is such an event, for a country that I'm growing fond of, and I'm so close, that it seems selfish to ignore it and drive. Twenty minutes later, I'm parking at the Sir Ed centre, running through pouring rain, and catching the second half of the local memorial service.

It's more moving than I expected. There's a lot of genuine affection for Sir Ed, and a lot of national pride wrapped up in his story. At the end of the service, the crowd sings the national anthem, and then a lone bagpiper leads them up the stairs and outside, where there is a statue of Sir Ed. I can't see what is happening up there - it's a small area and there are lots of people. So I go to a small room where they're screening a history of Sir Ed's life. There's a lot to learn about him, but I really do have to go. So this time, I go back to the car and get my camera, take a couple of photos, and having done my duty, I drive with a clear conscience. I still don't understand why it was troubled in the first place.

I pass the wretched cyclist again. It must be an hour since I first passed him, and he's still nowhere near the main road. He thumbs a lift again, I beep an acknowledgement and drive on. At least the weather is clearing. The clouds are breaking up and sun is warming the air and drying the road.

When I finally reach Highway 8 and head north, I see three hitch hikers and they're young ladies. At last! Having paid my dues picking up first a possum hunter and then an aspiring possum hunter, Karma is smiling on me. They need a lift to Tekapo, which is where I need to buy petrol. Perfect all round. I have all my luggage with me, including my snowboard bag, so we spend a few minutes figuring out how to pack the luggage, and then cramming the girls into the car, and we're on our way.

My new friends are:

Claudia - a student, studying Civil Engineering;
Denisse - a student, studying Agronomy; and
Camila - a qualified dentist.

They're from Santiago in Chile, and are here on a working holiday. They're really friendly, and we chat for a while - talking about what we're all doing in New Zealand, where we're going next etc. Their English is excellent, and they talk intelligently about a whole lot of things. They're funny and relaxed. To cap it all, they're all pretty too. If only I was 20 years younger, and more handsome etc. I decide to make up for my shortcomings with humour. So about ten minutes into the journey, having spent five minutes building up some courage, I start talking in Spanish. I tell them that I don't mind if they want to talk in Spanish and, if they don't want me to understand, all they have to do is talk quickly. They're surprised and impressed. I end up impressing myself too, as much of the remaining 15 minutes is conducted in Spanish. I realise that I'm able to bore women in two different languages.

Arriving in Tekapo, I drop them at the hostel where they're staying, and we exchange email addresses. That's the last highlight for several hours. I fill the tank in Tekapo, and start driving again. As I reach Geraldine, the rain returns, harder than ever.

Last time I was here and heading back home, I went past Christchurch, through Kaikoura, and up to Picton. This time, I'm taking a different route, more inland and skirting some of the ski fields. I had hoped to get an idea of the mountains in the area, but the weather has made this impossible. I drive grimly through the deluge until I reach Methven. I need a break. I park, and find a supermarket where I buy some milk, some water, and a sandwich.

I also find a small shop that makes and repairs outdoor clothing. I chat for a while to the lady in there. It turns out she knows someone from the snowboarding forum that I'm on, and we chuckle about his death-defying near-misses with avalanches. I've never met the guy myself, and had thought about meeting sometime during the winter, to go boarding somewhere. Maybe I'll be safer sitting in the bar! I also remember that I need a repair on my snowboard pants, so I get them from the car. She says she can copy the whole design and make me a second pair! So I leave them with her, get a ticket, and receive instructions to return in June.

I get back on the road, and drive again. The scenery is probably great, but I can't see it for the rain and the spray and the low cloud. It only starts clearing as I approach Kaikoura, but from that point on it's a nice evening. The sky darkens from orange to deep red to purple and finally to black. About an hour south of Blenheim, I drive through a moth swarm. It last for about 15 minutes and, lit up by the main beam, they look like asteroids flying past my car. Naturally, I immediately become a space fighter pilot - a strong silent hero - a good man in a world gone bad. For 15 minutes I battle those enemy space fighters, dodge those asteroids, swoop through space, perform heroic deeds, and move on. As the asteroid cloud thins and eventually disappears, my space ship is battle-scarred and I'm battle-weary. But I've saved a planet from domination - the planet Santiago, and its three beautiful princesses: Princess Claudia, Princess Denisse, and Princess Camila.

The rest of the drive is, predictably, less eventful. Arriving in Picton, this time I manage to find somewhere to stay for the night. The Yacht Club hotel in Picton has one room spare, and it turns out to be a fantastic apartment. It's a shame it's so late and I can't enjoy it. I go straight to bed, setting my alarm so that I'll be up in five hours time, for the early ferry back to Wellington.

18th January: Wellington to Nelson

2008-01-19T03:59:00.000-08:00

I have a late breakfast, pack my stuff and leave my bags with the hotel while I walk across town to collect the hire car. The sun is hot and bright again, and once I have the keys, I put the air-con on maximum and relish the icy blast on my face. I head tortuously back to the hotel and load up all my bags (my main luggage bag, snowboard bag, backpack for the laptop, snowboarding pack). I decide to hit the South Island tonight rather than tomorrow, but it's too late to get an Interislander ticket from the kiosk in the train station, so I drive to the ferry terminal, buy my ticket and receive instructions to be back around 17:15. That gives me two hours, so I decide to check out some possible apartments around the Hutt Valley. Nothing much excites me though, and it's a depressing drive around, looking at places that I don't like.

So it's with some relief that I point the car back towards the Interislander terminal and, 20 minutes later, take my place in the queue. There's a delay unloading the ferry before we board, so we set off almost forty minutes late - by the time we arrive in the South Island, it will already be nearly 10pm. But the journey across the Cook Strait is smooth and, arriving in Picton, I fill the car with petrol, buy a couple of bottles of water, and I'm ready to go. In my last trip to the South Island, I went down the East Coast, to Kaikoura and Christchurch, and then headed inland. This time, I want to see the West Coast.

It's getting late, but every hour that I drive this evening is an hour that I won't have to drive tomorrow. So I set off towards Nelson. I'm following my usual plan - know which route I'm taking, have some idea which town I'm aiming to sleep in, but be prepared to change plans. Without having a reservation, I can improvise, knowing that I can happily (and warmly) sleep in the car. So I'm relaxed enough as I drive. The roads are quiet and I'm making good progress. Unlike the previous hire car, this one has cruise control so I can set a speed on the country roads and not have the stress of creeping over the limit and being nailed by a police car. So, without a care in the world (at least for this evening) I drive along the winding Highway 6, accompanied by The Rock. It's one of the better radio stations I've found, although the reception is intermittent in this part of the country. So I frequently find myself driving through the dark accompanied by the impersonal but dependable sound of radio static. But I know the reception will come back so, rather than flick to a more soul-destroying station, I drive on with the radio hissing and crackling in the background.

The last few miles of Highway 6 into Nelson is probably fantastic in the daytime. It's pretty good at night. In the distance, I see the faint yellow glow of Nelson's streetlighting. With the road now skirting the Tasman Bay shoreline, to my right is the the Tasman Sea. It's inky black, with a subdued smear of moonlight. There are clouds in the sky so, although the moon's crescent is broad and bright, it mostly looks like a faint smudge in the darkness. It gives a strong sense of a mighty ocean, sleeping.

When I reach Nelson, it looks like I will indeed be sleeping in the car. It's very quiet now, so I drive around without seeing any signs of life until I stumble upon an illuminated motel sign. The Trailways Hotel looks good, but is fully booked. The man is helpful though, and has keys for DeLorenzo's across the road. Ten minutes later, my teeth are brushed, I've glugged another litre of water, and I'm in bed planning my itinerary for tomorrow.

11th December: Au revoir New Zealand, hello again Brisbane

2007-12-12T22:12:00.001-08:00

My alarms go off at 4:30 am, for an early check in at Auckland airport. It's surprisingly busy, even at 5:30. As I wait for check-in, a lady from Airport Security walks along the queue, offering plastic bags for people's gels, liquids etc.

"Do you need a plastic bag sir?" She has a notable Manchester accent.

I'm tired and trying to remember whether I have any toiletries in my hand luggage.
"No thanks. I'm ok." I reply, almost certain.

"Are you sure?" she challenges, with a grin.
"Er, yes. I'm pretty sure."
"You don't have anything in your hand luggage? No lipstick?"
"No, I don't use lipstick. I'm a natural beauty."

If she's unconvinced, she's kind enough not to say so.

"Here, have a bag anyway. They come in handy."
"OK. I always do what women tell me."

Somehow, the encounter ends up with her telling me I can use the bag as a prop for chatting up women (for example, a woman suddenly finds that she doesn't have her plastic bag - I step in, plastic bag in hand, and save the day). Even the woman in front of me in the queue joins in.

"Where were you when I needed advice like that at the school disco?" I lamented.

In spite of reminding me that I'm incapable of spotting romantic possibilities, even the obvious ones offered by a plastic bag, this encounter has cheered me up. I check in, pay the departure fee (which still irritates me) and proceed through to the security screening.

It's probably 20 minutes since my encounter with the Mancunian security guard but, as I approach the X-ray machine, there she is!

"Oh, hello again. So, did you get lucky while you were witing to check in?"
"Well I thought I had done, but then you cleared off."

As I empty my pockets into the plastic tray, we chat about where we're from, and she tells me about her friend who runs a fetish club in Leeds. Apparently the friend's mum thinks she runs a charity shop.

"Where is this fetish club?" I ask. "I need to meet your friend. Maybe I'll take the plastic bag with me." By this time, the people in front have gone through the metal detector, so our gas-bagging has to stop. She nods to her colleague through the other side saying "It's no problem - we're just chatting". We say our goodbyes, and I walk through the metal detection doorway.

The detector alarm goes off. The security bloke checks my belt and then waves his metal detector over me. My legs set off his alarm. He feels for ankle holsters and asks me to raise the legs of my jeans. His alarm goes off again. My socks start setting off his detector. For some reason, he’s not as curious about this as I am. He waves me through, and I contemplate burying my socks on a beach and watching the bemused faces of treasure hunters.

So I'm through the security stages, and am walking to the departure gate. There's a small knot of middle-aged oriental people walking just ahead. I've noticed in my travels that the far east seems to produce more than its share of noisy people, and this group is right up at the top of the scale. I initially think they're arguing, but as far as I can tell, they're just talking and trying to find the correct departure gate. Happily, they're flying to Brisbane too so I can be treated to their deafening chatting while we wait. I sit and marvel at their oblivion to the noise they're making. Even other oriental people seem to be tutting.

A very distinguished oriental man rises from his seat, a few feet away from mine, and starts walking away from the noisy group. In his late middle-age he looks educated and polite, and accustomed to civilised ways of behaviour. I decide he must be a professor or perhaps a judge. As he walks past me, expensively dressed and well manicured, he snorks up a huge ball of phlegm from somewhere inside his head. The glutinous bubbling noise is braggingly loud, and I'm startled. Much to my horror, I can tell a lot more than I want to know about the contents of his mouth. He walks to the bin, stands aristocratically over it and, as I look away, he drops the contents in. At least the splat is quiet.

It still isn't 7:00. This has been quite a start to the day.

Thankfully the rest of the day is uneventful and, by the time I go to bed that night, my ears have stopped ringing.

9th December: Breathtaking views and sleeping in the hire car

2007-12-10T22:09:00.000-08:00

Looking at the map, I know I haven't got time to visit Queenstown, but I do want to see some more sights before I head back to Picton. I decide to head south and see some lakes. As usual, it takes ages.

It's a scorching hot day and Highway 1 has some very long straights, completely different from the drive down to Christchurch. It makes for an arduous journey until, as I approach the mountains, the road starts to get more interesting. But it feels like an awfully long time before I reach signs telling me I'm finally approaching Lake Tekapo.

When I finally reach the small village on its shores, the journey suddenly becomes worthwile. Driving along the main road through the village, there are some housing developments on either side - Tekapo is expanding. But there's no development, and there are no existing houses, within perhaps 100m of the lake shore. Instead, there are wide open spaces with picnic benches, from which you can sit and admire the view. And it's an easy view to admire. Lake Tekapo is picturesque, with snow-capped mountains in the background, under a blue sky flecked by serene white clouds. The whole feeling is very peaceful.

I take a few photos, but my brain is juggling two things - the time (in particular, how long it will take me to get back to Picton) and the fact that Lake Pukaki and Mount Cook are nearby. Do I have time to see them? I've come so far, it would be senseless not to. There's a policeman filling up with petrol and I ask how long it will take to reach Lake Pukaki, and whether it's worth going. He says “About 25 minutes. I've just come from there. It's beautiful today, with really nice views of Mount Cook and the glaciers”. I don't really need any persuading - he could have put me off if he'd said it was an hour away, but not 25 minutes. So I drive for almost exactly 25 minutes and suddenly there it is. And it's stunning.

It's one of those views where you come round a bend and suddenly, it's just there. Lake Pukaki is mirror-smooth, with majestic Mount Cook at the far end.

I look for somewhere to pull over, find a layby, and get out of the car. It's incredibly hot – I've read that lack of pollution means the New Zealand sun can be particularly severe. Today is evidence of that. The sun is searing through the clean air and feels like it's peeling away my skin. It's also incredibly quiet here. There's no breeze at all, and unless a lonely car passes by, there is no sound except a couple of bird calls.

Looking around me, this vast, searing, silent space is too much to take in. I'm awestruck, and then I am numb, and then I'm awestruck again.

A car stops nearby and two people get out. They look like grandfather and granddaughter and their arrival pulls me out of my trance. I turn on my camera. Again I know the photos won't do it justice - I'm getting used to that feeling in New Zealand. The edge of the lake is a bit rubbly – the water level is slightly down. They walk to the water's edge down and get dive-bombed by some protective birds. I walk 10 yards further to the left and walk down myself. The birds don’t trouble me. I am one with nature. The water is spectacularly clear and still, and I take photos.

But now I really have to get back on the road. I estimate Picton is about 6 hours away. I should be back by midnight, and hopefully be able to find somewhere to stay. The journey back is long and tedious, and I contemplate staying in Blenheim overnight. But when I get there, having got this far, I press on and drive the extra half hour to Picton.

Unfortunately, when I get there Picton is shut. A couple of bars are still open but none of the motels are, and at 11:30 pm none are answering their out-of-hours doorbells or phone numbers. I spend 20 minutes driving round the tiny centre of a small town, before I decide to sleep in the car. It will help me to get up in time for the early ferry. It's a warm night so my shorts, t-shirt and barefeet are no concern. I park in the a bay reserved for Apex hire cars, I open the windows slightly, recline the seat, and sleep soundly.

7th December: Another interview and a dilemma

2007-12-08T15:57:00.000-08:00

I'm up early and go for my final New Zealand interview. I already have a job offer which I'm happy to accept, so I don't expect to line up any more interviews after this one. The interview was arranged at short notice, and we only have half an hour. When we finish, 90 minutes later, I suddenly have a problem.

The interview went well - it ended with them saying they wanted me to start a 6 month contract. I've already gone a fair way down the track with Transpower, but the last 24 hours have changed the picture for me. I'm less certain that I'll be staying in Wellington for a long time, and I don't think I should accept a permanent position under those circumstances. I'm on the verge of ringing Helen at the agency, but decide I need time to take everything in. Helen rings me in the afternoon, and I guiltily don't mention what's happened. By that time, there's nothing much she can do anyway, so I decide to think things through over the weekend.

In the evening, I pack my bags again, ready for tomorrow's early departure for the South Island.

6th December: Rotorua council and then back to Wellington

2007-12-07T15:56:00.000-08:00

I wake in the dingy surroundings of the motel room. It's not very uplifting. Opening the curtains, it's equally dingy outside. The skies are dark and the rain is persistent. I have to vacate the room by 10, and I need to buy an interview-appropriate shirt. And somewhere along the line I have to get showered, changed etc.

I need to get to the shops quickly, so I shave and then put on my clothes from yesterday. After some exploration I find a shirt, and get back to the room as fast as I can. I'm out at about 10:05 (with a team of cleaners already busy in loads of rooms, the departure time seems particularly critical in this place). But I'm wearing yesterday's scruffy clothes, I'm not showered, my new shirt has the tell-tale lattice of creases, proclaiming "look at me - I bought this shirt in a hurry!", and I have a meeting in less than 3 hours. Everything is under control.

The Rotorua Visitor Centre is in the attractive Old Post Office Building (there are many interesting and attractive buildings in Rotorua) and includes a bureau de change that offers showering facilities. All I have to do is find somewhere to iron the shirt, and the motel owner comes up with the goods. He has a large laundry & linen room, in which he keeps irons and ironing boards for customers to use. They'd normally use them in their own rooms of course, but he obligingly says I can use them in situ - in the laundry room. So I'm sorted.

I don't want to iron and then re-crease the shirt, so I return to the tourist information building and shower (fantastic shower - after yesterday's disappointment in New Plymouth and last night's disheartening shower in the motel, I could stay in this one for an hour). Then it's back to the motel where I stand in the laundry room (in which a previously unnoticed hot water tank has turned the place into a sauna), iron the shirt into a pristine state, and get changed into my interview suit. I'm ready!

I meet Gary at the Information Centre, we stroll to Rotorua, meet their head of IT, and have a very good meeting. At the end of it, we've identified several things that we can help with, and the IT Director seems keen. Back in the visitor's centre, Gary and I have a coffee and talk about New Zealand. But we can't talk for long - he has to get back to Hamilton, and I have a mammoth drive down to Wellington. We part company and I begin the long, long, long drive South. I pass through Taupo and fill up again with petrol and coffee. Then it's the State Highway 1 again, south past Turangi, Waiouru, Taihape, Hunterville, Bulls, Levin, on down the Kapiti Coast and finally to Wellington.

The Portland Hotel has been perfect for me - close to the centre of town, reasonable price, comfortable rooms, nice breakfast and friendly staff. I recommend it.

I lay out my clothes - I have an interview tomorrow. Thankfully, the client company has a casual dress policy on Fridays, so smart casual is fine. I have another great shower and, clean and tired, I climb into bed. This last two days has been tough.

5th December: New Plymouth to Rotorua. No barmaids!

2007-12-05T03:45:00.000-08:00

I'm up early this morning. I'm looking forward to a long hot shower, but it's a disappointment. Not enough power and I have to wander around to get the water all over me. So I'm out of there quickly, I'm dressed and after a quick breakfast, I'm on the road. My next destination is the Bay Of Plenty, but I need petrol. Driving around looking for a petrol station, I find myself going down a dead end street with a small car park at the end. But it has a view over the ocean, and some interesting-looking volcanic plugs just offshore, so I take out my camera and take a few snaps. The air is cool and there's a gentle breeze which is welcome as the temperature is already starting to climb.

Packing my camera away, I turn and see a man heading towards me, pulling a golf trolley. As he loads them into his car, I ask him for directions to a petrol station. He replies in an unmistakable Lancashire accent which is all the more impressive as he's lived in New Zealand for 50 years. We chat for a while. Ken is 78 years old and retired. He plays a lot of golf and looks as though he could happily go round again right now. But he has to go back home to his wife. His second wife - the first having died decades ago. A picture of health, he's happy, relaxed, and a good advert for settling in New Zealand. He hasn't been back to the UK for a long time, and doesn't have any plans to visit. A good Yorkshireman, I tell him I'd be in no rush to visit Manchester either, and we have a laugh. The War Of The Roses is a very long way from here. We chat for 20 minutes about nothing in particular, before we return to the subject of petrol stations. Directions received, we shake hands and go our separate ways.

Five minutes later, with a full tank of petrol, I'm at the counter about to pay when I spy something I've not seen back in the UK. A bar of Black Forest Dairy Milk chocolate. Not normally much of a chocaholic, I haven't had any chocolate for quite a while. So I ask the cashier if it's nice or horrible, and suddenly I find myself in another conversation. She's an attractive, athletic Maori woman in her thirties, and we get on well. She tells me a bit about the local area, and I tell her about the UK. She asks if I'm enjoying New Zealand and I talk about how friendly everybody is. She tells me everybody's bound to be friendly because I'm so easygoing and friendly myself, and apparently quite funny too. Suddenly I don't want to leave this petrol station, and this very perceptive woman! Sadly, I do have to go, but I promise that next time I'm in New Plymouth I'll buy petrol from her. She says she'll hold me to it. More cheery goodbyes and I'm on my way, marvelling at this Kiwi nation. There must be some who are a pain in the @rse, but I haven't met any yet.

That, unfortunately, is the last memorable thing to happen for several hours. The cashier told me it was a long way to my next stop and she wasn't kidding! By the time I get to Mount Maunganui, it's more with a sense of relief than excitement. The weather is clouding and there's intermittent rain. And all I can think about is the amount of time I still have to drive - I'm going to Rotorua this evening, for a presentation tomorrow. My mate Gary and I are going to Rotorua council to talk about some IT services we could offer them.

But that's tomorrow. Right now, I have a coffee and a muffin, and drive around in the rain trying to get a feel for the place. The rain stops briefly and I take a photo of the beach - one of the reasons why this area is such an attraction.

But the rain returns and I leave, just in time to join the Mount Maunganui rush hour. It doesn't last long though - one advantage of having small towns and cities. Most of the journey to Rotorua is through intermittent rain. When I get there, I drive around and find a motel. It's convenient for the bars and restaurants, it's cheap and it's got a big comfortable bed. It needs decorating though. I have a quick shower in an unwelcoming bathroom, and head out for something to eat. My first steak for ages - it's good, but not as good as I was looking forward to.

I walk back to the motel, through pouring rain, and in no time I'm in that big comfortable bed. The room is tired, scruffy, in need of refurbishment, but I don't care. I'm knackered and I'm asleep straight away.

4th December: Wellington to New Plymouth

2007-12-05T02:42:00.000-08:00

My Wellington interviews are finished, and I have to drive North to Auckland, where I'm hoping for a 2nd interview with a consulting company. They've been trying to arrange one for weeks, even in Australia. But I've told them I'm coming to Wellington and they're trying to get the space in people's diaries.

There aren't many routes to take. I'm tempted to go via Taupo again, to try and get a clear sight of Ruapehu. But as I approach the small town of Bulls (and the junction where I have to decide my route), there seem to be clouds in the Taupo direction, whereas the sky is clear over the west coast. So, I ignore Highway 1 to taupo, and follow Highway 3 up the west coast. A couple of hundred kilometres ahead of me lies the Surf Highway, and Mount Taranaki.

There's nothing to commend the drive. It's great weather, but not picturesque - the mountains are too far to the East, and the coast is too far to the West (and even when the coastline gets close, it still manages to hide behind small hills and trees). Johnny Cash keeps me company - a live show at Astbury Park. But this journey is difficult to enjoy.

And then, as I'm leaving a town called Hawera, I get my first sight of Taranaki. I'm shocked, partly because it looks stunning, and partly because it's still 40 miles away! I just wasn't expecting to see it yet, but there it is. And it's not small either, even at this distance. I see its white, snow-capped summit, towering high above a layer of cloud. It's a wide, cone-shaped volcano. Approaching from the south, it looks perfectly symmetrical, and it dominates the landscape much more than I expected. I check the map to make sure it really is that far away. It is.

The rest of the drive, it's hard to share my attention between the road and Taranaki. I look for spots to pull over and take photographs, knowing that they won't do it justice. And those damn clouds again! Not as engulfing as those that permanently hide Ruapehu, but it would be nice to get a clear shot of Taranaki. Still, the wind is blowing in the right direction, so maybe the clouds will clear. I drive on, but they never do.

I eventually stop in New Plymouth. I find a motel, find a bar, talk to a barmaid (again! I wish my life was always like this!). She's a single parent, doing a degree in Social Work. She works two nights a week to get extra money in. Once again, she's pretty (NZ seems to have a lot of pretty barmaids) but initially not very talkative. Maybe she's just looking forward to closing time, or maybe it's because she didn't really enjoy her time in the UK. She spent a year in England and Scotland, and found the people rather unfriendly. I apologise on behalf of Britain. She still wants to travel, and mentions Spain, which cheers me up. I also suggest Ireland, as they're generally a friendly bunch. We chat for a while, and everything relaxes. We finish with an amiable farewell and a few Happy Christmases.

I stroll back to the motel, and sleep soundly.

2nd December: A knight in shining armour drives from Havelock to Taupo To Wellington

2007-12-05T01:34:00.001-08:00

I have another long drive ahead of me. A quick outdoor breakfast outside a Havelock North cafe, and then I'm back on the road. I was going to drive back to Napier, and see what it's like during the day. But I can't really spare the time, so I bypass Napier and get on Highway 5 heading for Taupo. I'm looking for the Eskdale mountain bike trails, which get good reports and seem to be in good terrain. Unfortunately, there's not much to see from the access road and there's not much point in me walking. So it's a quick trip across the road, to a cafe by the road. It's fringed by lavender fields (it turns out that lavender and lavender products are their main business). I really just want a pee, but I end up buying a piece of carrot cake and a piece of banana & chocolate cake. I'm assured they'll still be edible in Wellington (still probably 8 hours away). The rest of the road is pretty uninteresting (by New Zealand standards), writhing its way over the Ahimanawa Range that separates the northern part of Hawke's Bay from the Taupo Region. The last 30km before Taupo takes me across the southern part of the Central Plateau. There's a lot of managed forestry going on, and I keep looking around me and seeing more places that would be good for some easy cross-country mountain biking. I press on.

A few hours after leaving Havelock North, I'm finally dropping into Taupo. It's much sunnier than the last time I was here, but the summit of Ruapehu is still covered by cloud. Hungry, I park beside the lake, watching a whole load of different activities - swimming, sailing, windsurfing, canoeing. I play my part by eating the carrot cake. I take a few more photos because the weather is better than the last time I was here, and then I'm back on the road.

The clouds are moving slowly West to East, and I decide to drive round the West side of Ruapehu. I know the road, and I know it will be a nice drive. It will add a fair amount of time to my journey back to Wellington, but it's a nice day and I want to get a shot of Ruapehu if I can. Sadly, I can't. Never mind - the day has a different delight in store.

As I drive up the approach road to the ski field, I pass a couple of female backpackers walking down the hill. It's a long road, and when they reach the bottom, they'll still have quite a walk to the accommodation that sits on Highway 47. But it's a nice day, and it's all downhill. Good for them! I go as far as Chateau Tongariro, and take a few more photos.

The last time I was here, even Mount Ngauruhoe (the smaller volcano that almost seems to be in the Chateau's back garden) was obscured by cloud. This time it's clear, so I at least get a couple of shots that I didn't already have.

Happy with that, I head back down the road. There, about a mile from the junction at the bottom, are the two backpackers that I passed about 20 minutes earlier. They're probably enjoying the scenery and the fresh air and the exercise, but I stop beside them and ask if they want a lift. They're in the car almost before I finish the sentence! These girls certainly are sick of walking!

Emma (from Rochdale) and Anne-Marie (from Sheffield) are looking for the accommodation that will form their base camp for the Tongariro Alpine Crossing. They have a small route map and I have a road map and, after a few minutes of twisting our necks and turning these maps in all directions, I reluctantly tell them I think they've come the wrong way. Emma (who did the Tongariro in 2003, and is therefore the expedition leader) says sheepishly "I was starting to think we might be going the wrong way". Lol! I wonder how long she'd have dared to keep that thought to herself? If I'd passed them five minutes later, they might have been brawling at the roadside. :-) Thankfully they're too tired to scuffle in the back of the car and, with their legs getting a rest, they both see the funny side. As do I. The drive back up the hill is long enough to have a good old laugh and a chat. Emma has been living in New Zealand for a couple of years and loves the place. Anne-Marie has just bought a house close to where I used to live on the South side of Sheffield. She's just visiting Emma, and she loves New Zealand too. She'll be back. Tomorrow morning they intend to do the crossing and then, at the weekend, Anne-Marie will fly back home. I tell them about looking for work, and the car ride (only a few minutes) is filled with good natured joking and nonsense. At the top, Emma goes into the Tourist Information office that they left over an hour ago, to find out where their accommodation is. She emerges with a sheepish look on her face. It's about 50 metres away! We unload their bags, wish each other good luck, have a few hugs and I give them my banana cake. They need it more than I do.

Then it really is time to drive home to Wellington. The journey is long, but uneventful. I arrive fairly late but relaxed. I need to sleep. I have an interview tomorrow.

1st December: Coast To Coast - Wanganui to Havelock North

2007-12-02T04:00:00.000-08:00

The first day of December is a scorcher. 25 degrees of New Zealand sun, and I’ve decided to head over to the East Coast, to the Hawke’s Bay region and specifically to Napier. But first, a short stroll around Wanganui. It’s nice enough. I buy some new batteries and am pleased to see that my camera works once more. Clearly those Super Powers are all bluster. I visit the beach and see black sand for the first time. With tiny fragments of shells mixed in, the beach is actually a very dark grey. But the actual grains of sand are properly black, and I’m quietly impressed. But only for a moment. It’s time to press on. The lady at hotel reception recommended that I go up Duries Hill – a high vantage point overlooking Wanganui. If the sky is clear (and it’s completely clear over Wanganui), I’ll see Mt Ruapehu at Taupo, over a hundred miles away. Unfortunately, distant clouds thwart me again. So I take a few pictures of Wanganui and then I’m on my way. I follow Highway 4 to Ohakune (Highway 4 is like a mixture of country A roads & B roads in the UK. Most of it is B road stuff – single lane and sinewy.) But there’s hardly any traffic and my progress is good. I stop at Raukawa Falls and contemplate a canoe ride from Taupo to Wanganui. The falls might be too big to drop, but would be easy enough to negotiate with ropes. Obligatory photos and then back in the car.

The rest of the journey passes uneventfully. The Mojo Webb CD is ok, but not a patch on his live show. The Stellar* CD is ok, although the highlights are the first two songs. They’re all I listen to for the next two hours.

In Ohakune I get directions to Napier. The guy in the shop points to a little country road that wriggles over the Ruahine Range. He says it will knock about 2 hours off the journey time compared with the A roads, but a long stretch in the middle is just gravel. Am I ok with that? I reassure him that I’m fine driving on gravel and it will be worth it – there’s bound to be some pretty good scenery, and I’m an intrepid adventurer. The customary cheery farewell, and I’m back on the road. About 40 minutes later I’m at the junction. Napier is about 140km away, and this twisty road will take me there. The sign warns that 27km of it is unsurfaced gravel!

But first (almost immediately), this road turns into a motorbike paradise – nicely twisty but good visibility. The surface is excellent and I’m already thinking about doing this route again on two wheels. The only problem is trying not to be too distracted by the scenery. But those sentiments soon change when I finally hit the gravel. Initially it’s ok, but after about 5km, and with another 22km to go, I start thinking it would just be frustrating and tense on a bike. Especially a nice one. It would be fun on something that you didn’t much care about – something where you could accept the risk of dropping it and the certainty of stone chips. But a lot of the most spectacular scenery is in this stretch and, on two wheels, you’d be too preoccupied to see it. For the gravel stretch, I decide that 2 wheels are too few.

Once past the gravel, and descending into the Eastern side of the North Island, the scenery is a bit more mundane. Or maybe I’ve just become accustomed to the spectacular. But it starts to feel like a hell of a long way to Napier. Still, with Stellar* accompanying me, I make it eventually. I’m finally here! Thank heavens! But the relief and elation are short-lived. I drive around a while, catching occasional but disappointing glimpses of why Napier calls itself the Art Deco city. I'm trying to find out where the night life is, and find some accommodation that’s an easy walk away. I ask a few locals where the bars are, and they all direct me to the same street. Each time, I drive along it incredulously. I’m afraid to make too much noise in case I disturb the tranquility. There seem to be 2 bars (possibly 3, but one is so quiet I’m not even sure whether it’s open). I can’t stay here. I head to Hastings, about 20km down the coast. On arrival, I ask a local where the bars are in Hastings, lamenting that Napier was like a ghost town. He laughs mightily and says I won’t find anything better in Hastings. This is getting desperate. 8:30pm and I have nowhere to stay and can’t find anywhere that has anything happening. I ask if he can suggest anything else. “Havelock North. That’s only a small place, but it has quite a few bars all in one street. That gets pretty lively.”

20 minutes later, I enter Havelock North. Completely unlike the other places – you couldn’t call it quaint, but it does have ‘something’. I find a motel (really good room) and stroll off to the strip. The Irish bar (every NZ town seems to have one) is large but empty. A band is just starting but they seem under-prepared – still sorting out their sound levels. So I go round the corner to the Loading Ramp. There I meet Ayla.

It’s Ayla’s second night behind the bar. It’s still fairly early (about 10:30) so it’s fairly quiet, and we chat. Ayla is young, quite tall, dark haired (although apparently she’s a natural blonde), extremely pretty, with a smile that lights up the whole room – and it’s a big room. Her conversation is filled with warmth and sunshine. She tells how she spent some time teaching in Hong Kong, and enjoyed it but it was hard being there all on her own. Now she's back in NZ doing occasional work while she figures out what to do next. I tell her about my New Zealand experiences so far. Every so often she goes off to serve other guests and then comes back to chat some more. She tells me about returning to New Zealand and how, one day, an old man in the street said to her "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?". She says how happy that made her feel, and suddenly that smile comes back and fills the room with light again. There’s something very special about Ayla.

The same can’t be said for the bloke who starts talking to me. I understand roughly half of the words he says, and I learn that:

He’s just driven back from Hastings, completely inebriated

The police are cracking down on drunk drivers but they’ll never catch him because he has an XR8 and if they try to chase him he’ll be gone. (He expresses this with such vigour that nearly falls over.)

Everyone in the bar is queer. Especially that bouncer over there!

Pretty soon his sentences are no more than a haphazard combination of vowels and, thankfully, I understand no more. I escape and manage to avoid him the rest of the night. But I'm still amused several times, watching the faces of people that he talks to.

Anyway, the place itself plays loads of cool oldie songs until about 11:30. It then goes into more general modern club stuff. The young guns arrive around midnight and the place goes off. Music is pulsating with appropriately hedonistic throbbery but, unlike in the UK, the volume is set to “trouser-flapping” instead of “Armageddon”. Bravo! (as we say in Havelock North).

Ayla is way too busy for me to ask how things are going. As far as I can tell, her night is hectic, but under control. My night, on the other hand, is chilled and under no control. I want to request “Hey Boy Hey Girl” but I don’t want to risk spoiling a good night with a faux pas. Anyway, the music is fine as it is. So I absorb & enjoy until I eventually leave, having a quiet wander back to the motel. Tomorrow brings a long drive back to Wellington on long boring roads, back to interviews and back to urban reality. But I'm not really thinking about that now. As I stroll, I realise that today turned into a great day. Sometimes, life is that simple.

19th - 25th November: Buying a laptop in Brisbane

2007-11-26T06:35:00.000-08:00

I've been lamenting my limited access to the internet, and Paddy's been remarking how Vicky sometimes has to go all the way into school if she wants to do some work and access the web. The arrival of a leaflet brings us the answer.

WOW is a consumer electronics chain and they're pimping a load of special offers. One of them is a laptop with good spec, wireless capability, and a bargain price. We decide I'll buy it and use it initially and, when I've finished with it, Vicky will have it. It's a beautiful and elegant plan.

So I drive over to WOW, buy the laptop, and bring it home. The rest of the week, The Rig, The Laptop and I travel around Brisbane and the Gold Coast, looking for wireless hotspots. There are websites that list loads of them, and I discover that 99% of them are lies. But Coffee Club in Springwood has a nice area where I can use the laptop, use the wireless and have some delicious food. Gloria Jeans in Surfer's Paradise is ok too.

I don't achieve very much this week, but I know there's no point pursuing anything in Australia, and I can't do much about New Zealand until next week. So, for now, I just drive around and generally try to not be under Paddy & Vicky's feet.

17th November: Return to Brisbane

2007-11-18T17:13:00.000-08:00

Two mobile phones and the bedside alarm clock ensure that I wake up in time for my flight to Brisbane. I drop the car off at the airport office, and get a lift to the departure terminal. It's a quiet morning so, within five minutes, I've checked in and completed my departure slip. I find that all people leaving New Zealand have to pay a departure fee, which I find unbelievably annoying. It seems like a cynical way of just milking people who have no option. They can't decide not to bother flying. They just have to pay, just for being allowed to leave the country. I pay the fee and go through to the departure lounge where I have plenty of time for a coffee and an unhealthy breakfast of toasted banana bread.

The flight is smooth and arrives in Brisbane 5 minutes early. I collect my luggage and walk out into the Arrivals lounge to meet Paddy. After 15 minutes in Arrivals, I ring him, but there's no reply. 5 minutes later, he rings me back. He's still in bed!

So I get a taxi to the house and we all laugh about how hopeless he is. I bore them with my stories of New Zealand, and they say that they want to visit me out there. All I have to do is find a job.

16th November: Last minute interview in Auckland

2007-11-17T17:07:00.000-08:00

Waking up this morning, my first thought is that I can still smell the distinctive Rotorua air. It's still not unpleasant, but I'm surprised. Pulling back the curtains, last night's rain cloudy weather hasn't gone away. In fact, it's gloomier today. The sky is grey, and the drizzle is persistent. But it's a warm morning.

I'd like to see some of the geothermal sites, and I believe there's a traditional Maori village nearby. The lady in Reception gives me some maps and suggests a place called Wai-O-Tapu Thermal Wonderland, about 30 minutes away. If I get there by 10am, I'll have time to get a ticket and see the Lady Knox Geyser that 'erupts' every morning at 10:15. I'm impressed by Lady Knox's punctuality. I load up the car, fill it with petrol, and take the Old Taupo Road south out of Rotoroua. At the edge of town, behind a hotel, enormous clouds of steam are rising from the ground. But I don't have time to explore - I continue out on the Old Taupo Road, join Highway 5 towards Wai-O-Tapu, and I get there at 9:50.

The main tourist centre is a smart single story building at the far end of the access road. The car parks are full and the ticket desk is busy. But I beat the main rush, and have time to sit in the cafe for a cup of tea and some carrot cake - the breakfast of champions. Looking through the trail maps for the Thermal Wonderland, it looks like the Maori village will have to be another day. The trails take 2-3 hours and I probably won't even start until 11. So today is Wai-O-Tapu day. I hope it's good.

I go back to the car and join the procession back up the access road, until we reach the turn off for the geyser. It's 10:10 now, the drizzle has stopped, and the sky is brightening. Parking on a rough, unsurfaced car park, I take a couple of minutes to enjoy watching a woman who is apparently incapable of parking if the gap is smaller than a football pitch. Some of her manouevres are incomprehensible, some are preposterous, and all are hilarious. I'm not the only person to be enjoying this show. In fact I wonder if it might be better if I ignore Lady Knox, and just sit here watching Lady Knocks instead. But suddenly (perhaps with an eye on the clock, but nevertheless unexpectedly considering where her car is), she turns off her engine, gets out, and walks hurriedly across the car park. Behind her, the car looks like it was deposited there by a hurricane.

With the entertainment finished, I get out of my car and walk towards the pathway that will take me to Lady Knox. The path is a short one, winding through a few bushes until it opens out into a small amphitheatre of wooden benches. Down and to the left, behind an unobtrusive wooden barrier, is Lady Knox. She looks like a swirl of grey ice cream that has fallen on the ground and started melting in the sun. I practice using the video function on my camera, getting ready for the main event. 10:15 comes and goes. Hmmm.

Eventually, a man steps over the barrier, walks up to Lady Knox, and turns to face the expectant crowd. He's miked up, and starts explaining a bit about the human Lady Knox (daughter of a Governor of New Zealand), about the geyser Lady Knox (has two layers of water - an upper layer of warm water, lying on top of a lower layer of hot water), and how it was discovered (some prisoners at a nearby jail were washing their clothes and one of them dropped some soap down the hole of the geyser - a few minutes later the geyser erupted). In fact, as the man explains, Lady Knox would happily erupt without soap, and has done so for many thousands of years. But factors such as the recent amount of rain, the strength of the last eruption, the heat building up in the lower layer of water - all of these mean that eruptions could happen at any time, and be several days apart.

They would be patient tourists indeed, to sit and wait for that - even if being entertained by Lady Knocks in the car park. So, at 10:15 every day (or 10:25 today) somebody comes along and drops some soap down Lady Knox's vent (the poor old girl) and the show begins.

I press the 'record' button and try to get used to viewing the event through the small screen on the back of my camera. The man goes through his presentation while, on his left, Lady Knox stirs from her sleep, wisps of steam becoming stronger. Then, the first sight of the eruption. With well practiced timing, foam starts oozing out of the spout just as the man starts winding down his speech. 30 seconds later, he walks out of shot, and silence descends as everyone watches Lady Knox doing her thing.

The oozing gets stronger, turning into a flow of soapy water, and over the next few minutes it becomes a tall graceful spout of water dancing about 30 feet into the air. She does go higher, but not today. The eruption goes on for a surprisingly long time - it seems like 5 minutes but it must be shorter than that. Eventually, the column of water shrinks to a spill, and then retreats back down into the ground. Lady Knox is asleep again, until tomorrow.

I press the record button again, and the camera starts recording my feet. This is unexpected. It should simply have stopped the recording that I started earlier. Unless...

Scanning back through the videos, I have all the test videos that I shot before the eruptions. I even have the beginning of the full video. But I must have hit the record button again without realising it. Lady Knox has just erupted but all I have on screen, in the very last second before the clip finishes, is the first sign of foam rising from the vent. It's disappointing, and looks faintly nauseating. I'm cheered up when I see Lady Knocks' car again, but I make sure I get out of the car park before she starts her engine.

Back at the Thermal Wonderland tourist centre, the sky has darkened again and the rain has returned. It looks like it's here to stay, but at least it relented for Lady Knox. I set off following the trail around the whole Thermal Wonderland. I see clouds of steam rising from the ground in all directions. Holes in rocks, pouring out warm air. Some 'features' that aren't very exciting and seem to be the result of someone's desire to make something our of very little. Other features, that are impressive indeed. The Pink Terraces. The Champagne Pool. There's a warm waterfall that cascades about ten feet into a large lake below, and filling the surroundings with even more steam.

By the end of my walk, my fold-out map is soaked and now lies in several tattered pieces. My jeans are soaked. Even some of my shirt is soaked, where the rain has defeated the lightweight waterproof that I'm wearing. But it's been good and I would come here again. But right now, my thoughts return to driving. It's early afternoon, and I'm meeting Gary in Hamilton, on the way back to Auckland. Early tomorrow morning, I'll be flying back to Brisbane.

In the car park, I open the car boot, and get some dry clothes. With the rain becoming lighter but still persistent, the few passers-by are scurrying around, intent on finding the fastest way to somewhere dry. My car is discreetly nestled next to a camper can on one side and a border of head-high reeds and grasses and ferns on the other. So I sit in the driver's seat and writhe my way out of my wet clothes and into the dry. A minute later, with wet jeans and shirt on the back seat, and with wet socks and shoes in the passenger footwell, I drive back up the access road to the mud pools that I passed on the way in. One car leaves the small car park just as I arrive. The air is eerily still and I have the place to myself. I spend about 10 minutes just looking at everything, taking photos and videos, taking care not to repeat my Lady Knox calamity. If only the bubbling mud was as predictable as Lady Knox. Instead, while I video one area of fairly gentle bubbling, I hear an enormous burbling splosh to my right. So I point my camera at that area, and the next enormous splosh is elsewhere. So I just shoot a few clips with my fingers crossed. Then, it's back out for the last 100 metres on the access road, turn right back onto Highway 5, and start my journey north.

About an hour into the journey, I get a call from Brendon at High Street IT. I've been getting updates throughout the week, about one of their clients that is very interested in my CV. Things have moved on - they want to interview me this afternoon. I tell him where I am, he figures out how long it will take me to reach Auckland, and starts making phone calls back and forth. Ten hectic minutes later, with the dust settling, I text Gary and explain that I can't meet him today. I have to get to Auckland for an interview at 6pm.

It's a challenge, but the weather improves and the roads are fairly clear, so it looks like I might even get there with 30 minutes to spare. Until I reach the outskirts of Auckland. This stretch of Highway 1 is like a UK motorway - 3 lanes in both directions. Like many UK motorways at rush hour, the traffic is solid and stationary. I keep Brendon updated and he relays my location to the client. By the time I reach central Auckland, my 30 minute buffer has disappeared. By the time I've found a parking space, had another in-car change of clothes (into the smart casual clothes that I wore to the meetings with the agencies) and reached the office, I'm ten minutes late. But the guy is relaxed about it, and we go to a meeting room and start chatting.

The role is a little different from what I normally do, but I have a particular combination of skills and experience that they like. So I'm being interviewed as a possible business consultant in the engineering and construction industries. I'm not sure how on earth I'd fit into that role but, as he talks through it, everything falls into place and makes sense. He likes the things I'm saying and, at the end of the interview, he's even more happy to fit me into that role. From my chair, it's an exciting challenge, just being able to apply my skills and experience to a different industry. We spend a bit of time talking about the visa situation, and about his experiences as a Brit who's moved to New Zealand. By the time we finish, it's almost 7:30, but I ring Brendon as promised and tell him the positive news. We wish each other a good weekend and, as I walk back to the car, I reflect on how much faster things have moved for me in New Zealand compared with Brisbane. It's been quite a week. I've met several agencies and had great feedback from them all. There's been lots of interest from client companies, and I've had an interview that went well. With an early morning flight back to Brisbane tomorrow, my first visit to New Zealand is drawing to a close. All I need to do now is find somewhere to stay tonight.

I head towards the airport, and go round some of the motels and hotels in the area. I don't really care where I stay so within 30 minutes, I've checked into a hotel and am setting as many alarm as I can, to get me up in the morning.

15th November: Taupo to Rotorua

2007-11-16T17:06:00.000-08:00

Waking up this morning, the room is nice and warm. It's partly because of the electric appliances that have been on all night, and partly because yesterday's Southerly blast has disappeared. The sun is shining, there's a gentle breeze, and it's a nice day. I find a cafe with a view over Lake Taupo and have a leisurely breakfast outside. There's just the right number of tourists passing by - not enough to make it feel too busy, but enough to make it feel popular. Pondering the lake and the almost-visible volcanoes beyond, I figure out my plan for the day. I'm going to head South, drive through Tongariro National Park to look at the volcanoes and the small ski town of Ohakune, before continuing the circuit and coming back up the Desert Highway and back into Taupo. From Taupo, I'll drive North to Rotorua. From my early experiences of New Zealand roads, I know I have an awful lot of driving ahead of me.

Driving again along the eastern shore of Lake Taupo, I come to realise how big it is. Even with little traffic to slow my progress, it takes a long time to reach the far end. Several times along the way, as the road gets right down to water level, I marvel at the sight. But it's not what I really want to see. I'm chasing volcanoes.

At Turangi, I turn right onto Highway 47 and into the National Park. The scenery is good, but not outstanding - there are too many hills and forests for that. But slowly I'm gaining altitude and the scenery is changing. The trees start thinning, replaces by bushes and shrubs and grasses. There are no other vehicles on the road and it starts feeling quite desolate. Then, on my left, I get my first glimpses of snow. It's not much - just very thin cover, at the base of a hill that is so conical that I know it has to be a volcano. Pulling over, and checking my map, I'm sure it's Mount Ngauruhoe. Frustratingly, there's some low cloud and I'm quite high, so most of the volcano is hidden. Twenty minutes later, the frustration returns. I see more snow, and more cloud. But I turn left nevertheless, following the signs for the Whakapapa ski area.

After a few minutes driving, I come across somthing quite unexpected. Chateau Tongariro is a large hotel standing at the foot of Mount Ruapehu. In many other places it would be an imposing building. But here, even with much of Ruapehu hidden, the hotel is impressive but still seems small.

I follow the road past the hotel, and on up the hill. A few hundred yards further on, in the early months of summer, I see a sign warning of winter conditions. Excellent!

The road writhes up the mountain for another couple of miles and, with the window open, I can feel the air outside going from warm to cool to cold. There is very definite snow cover now, and snow lies thickly at the side of the road, where it has been ploughed aside. After five minutes of slow, sinewy progress, I arrive at the small base station of the Whakapapa ski area. The drive from Taupo has taken more than 90 minutes, and I don't know when my next stop will be. So I have a quick break at the cafe, drinking a coffee and reading an out-of-date ski magazine.

But I can't hang around for long. I have an awfully long way to go, and it's already after midday. So, having reached the end of this particular road, I turn round and drive back down, past the hotel, until the T-junction at the bottom where I turn left back onto Highway 4. The rest of the ride, along Highway 4 and then left onto Highway 49, passes through some good scenery, with highlights frustratingly hidden by either trees or hills or clouds. What have I done to deserve this? A long time later (how does every drive in New Zealand take so long?) I arrive at Ohakune. The buildings somehow put me in mind of a Western frontier town.

Driving around, the place seems almost deserted. I suppose it's not surprising, being a ski town out of season. In Europe, most ski resorts are heavily pushing themselves as summer destinations too, but it looks like that practice has yet to reach Ohakune. In a small shop I find out which road will take me up into the Ruapehu ski area. The cloud seems to be blowing over, and, standing down in sleepy Ohakune, I look up at the vast and snow-covered Mount Ruapehu. I want to get up there quickly, in case some more cloud arrives.

Even this drive takes some time, and gets pretty steep and twisty along the way. But it's worth it. At the end of the road, the ski station car park is covered with snow. The ski station is closed, but the gleaming white slopes are alost irresistable, and if I had my snowboard I'd be sorely tempted to hike. I stay for a while, reflecting on the fact that I'm parked on a snow-covered volcano in a New Zealand summer. Fantastic. But sitting here, the best slopes are obscured. So, keen to get some better photos and conscious of the rapidly passing time, I head back down the road, stop a few miles below the car park, take some photos, and then I'm on my way.

Back in Ohakune I fill the car with petrol, get back onto Highway 49, and head east towards Waiouru, where Highway 49 meets the Desert Highway that will take me back North. Even this drive seems to take for ever. So when I finally get back onto the Desert Highway, I just drive and drive and drive, noting the unworldly scenery of the plateau, but continue briskly on my way. By the time I get back to Taupo, the cloud has returned.

I don't stop in Taupo. By now, I'm keenly aware how much longer the journeys take in New Zealand, compared with equivalent distances in the UK. So I just keep driving, following Highway 1 for hours - through gloom, and then rain, and then gloomy rain - until I finally reach Rotorua. It's a famous geothermal area, and renowned for its sulphurous smell. The smell doles hit me as I drive into town. It's very noticeable, but not repellent. Strangely, the smell seems to change in different parts of the town but, although it's always there in some degree, it's never the dominating experience. But maybe that's because I have more pressing concerns.

It's evening now, and raining persistently. The motels signs advertise their vacancies in neon reds and greens and blues. I check a couple and decide it's not worth cruising around finding a good deal - the prices are likely to be pretty similar. So I check into one and get a quick bite to eat, before coming back, showering, watching some TV and going wearily to bed. This has felt like a long, long day, but I've seen my first snow-capped volcano, and I feel like I've finally started experiencing some of the New Zealand that I've waited so many years to see.

14th November: Auckland to Taupo

2007-11-15T17:05:00.000-08:00

I slept well last night. I get up late, pack my bag, have a long shower, get dressed and have a light breakfast. Apex car hire is just behind the hotel, so I take my bags with me to collect my chariot for the next few days. They're intrigued by the length of the number on UK driving licences, but the processing goes smoothly and I leave Wellington in a new silver Ford Focus.

I have no particular plan, other than heading South. In the next couple of days I want to see Taupo and Rotorua, but I have no real preference about which order I see them in, or where I'll stay each night. Free as a bird, I'll go where the mood takes me, and try to find somewhere to stay. But I do know my first stop - I'm going to Hamilton to have lunch with the only person I know in New Zealand.

I met Gary when we worked together in Newcastle. We worked together again in Nottingham. We have similar thoughts on project work, mistakes that seem to happen everywhere, and what to do about it. But generally, we just get on well. It's a while since I've seen him, so it will be good to meet today, if only for a lunch hour.

I head out of Auckland on State Highway 1. The air con is gratifyingly icy, against the heat outside. Getting acquainted with New Zealand radio, I find that it's both better and worse than UK radio. The music, generally, is more limited and is a mixture of older music from the UK & US, and music from New Zealand & Oz. To my ear, the Southern hemisphere music just lacks something that I can't put my finger on. It doesn't feel exciting like the best music from the UK & US. On the plus side, the DJs have a noticeably different style from the UK. Too many Radio 1 DJs give the impression that the music is an unfortunate interlude, distracting the listener from the pleasure of hearing the DJ talking drivel. NZ DJs seem a bit more humble but still have a good time in the studio. They play more music, which means they speak less, which means they're not constantly scraping the bottom of the conversational barrel. They also get away with saying things that would get them in trouble in the UK. Nothing explicit, but certainly some of their chats and jokes are much more adult and would have UK puritans reaching for their pens and emails. Not me. I enjoy the DJs, quite enjoy the music, don't enjoy the adverts, but certainly I welcome the distraction from the tedium of the journey.

Highway 1 is one of the main motorways that criss-cross the country but, once I've left Auckland, it turns into single carriageway, like a UK A-road. I've noticed that Kiwis talk about journeys in terms of how long it takes to get from A to B, rather than the distance between A and B. It seems strange, because the journey time depends on how fast you drive, whereas the distance is the same for everyone. But, once I'm on the road, I realise why Kiwis talk this way. The speed limits are a lethargic 100kph, and almost every vehicle can achieve that. So, with every car going along in formation at 100kph, talking about journey times makes a lot more sense. It doesn't help my mood though. Repeatedly stuck in long lines of vehicles, and with very few passing opportunities, it's a frustrating experience.

It's made more bearable by some of the scenery. None of the dramatic mountains that I hope to see further south, but there's quite a stretch where the road runs alongside a river to the right. Wide, with deep slow-running waters, it's certainly not majestic, but it does have a feeling of quiet dignity. Then there are the towns along the way. It's interesting to see how some things look slightly different compared with the UK. Most shop fronts have a slightly different feel. There are lots more shops etc for various types of farm machinery. And the towns are so much smaller. It's my first introduction to non-urban New Zealand, and it's a strange experience - very similar to the UK, but also quite different. I can see why people say it's like the UK 30 years ago, although that exaggerates the difference quite a lot.

When I finally arrive at the sign saying I've arrived in Hamilton, I start casting my eyes around for the city centre. I don't see it, and after a while, uncertainty is setting in. In the past hour, I've grown accustomed to towns being quite small. But I've been driving through Hamilton for 15 minutes, and still haven't seen the centre. It feels like an enormous succession of retail parks, industrial areas, car showrooms and fast food outlets. In the brilliant sunshine, there's something almost hypnotic about it. I'm just about to pull over and ring Gary, when I see the signs for the city centre, just ahead. At last! The next 15 minutes is spent trying to find a parking space - they seem to be in short supply. But, car parked, I ring Gary and 5 minutes later we meet for the first time in over a year.

We go to a cafe / restaurant nearby and Gary recommends one of the pasta dishes. We talk about old times, my experiences and frustrations in Australia, the work situation in New Zealand, Gary's experiences over the last four years in New Zealand etc. When the spaghetti arrives, it's a good choice. Pungently dressed in a green and garlicky dressing, and with a light dusting of parmesan, it perks me up for the rest of the drive ahead. Gary suggests a few options, and I decide to go to Taupo tonight, Rotorua tomorrow, and back to Auckland on Friday, ready for my early flight back to Brisbane on Saturday morning.

Back at the car park, we say our goodbyes, and I get back into the car which now feels like a blast furnace. As I drive through the afternoon, I watch the scenery turn into something like the northern end of the Yorkshire Dales. It feels very familiar. But the journey times feel strange. With such a small population, and so few towns along the way, the journey feels even longer. I feel like I've been driving for hours without seeing any settlements. Just the backs of various cars in front, until I work my way through each queue and progress to the next one.

When I see the signs telling me I'm approaching Taupo, it's quite a relief. I don't feel particularly tired, but I'll be glad of the chance for a break. Finally arriving at Taupo itself, all thoughts of a coffee are blown away by the sight of Lake Taupo and, at the far end (a very long way away) picked out by the late afternoon light, some snow-capped summits. This is the New Zealand I've heard about! This is what I've wanted to see!

There's a parking area and viewpoint on the left, at the top of the hill just before it drops down into the town of Taupo. I pull over and stare at the view. I want to get my camera from the boot of the car, but I really need a toilet break and I don't know where I'll find it. Photos will have to wait until tomorrow. I start the car and go down into town, where a petrol station allows me to fill the car and heave a sigh of relief.

Still feeling fresh, I decide (preposterously) to try and get as far South as possible, so I can get to Wellington tomorrow. So I'm back on the road, heading South out of Taupo, and onto the Desert Highway. After another 40 minutes of driving, I see some of the snow-capped mountains on my right. There's cloud obscuring the very tops, which is a disappointment, but I check my maps and find that I'm looking at the snow-covered slopes of Mount Ruapehu - the largest volcano in New Zealand, and one of the world's most active! It's the first volcano I've ever seen, and I wish it could have been on a clear day, against a blue sky, but I'm chuffed nevertheless.

The map has told me another thing too - after 40 minutes driving, I've hardly gone anywhere. I realise now that Wellington isn't a practical ambition for this trip, so I turn the car around and drive back to Taupo. There's no shortage of motels, all with vacancies, so finding somewhere to stay is easy. Unfortunately, having found one, checked in and cheerily paid in advance, I get to the room and it's freezing. A freezing cold Southerly wind has been blowing up from the Antarctic, but I expected the rooms to be warm. Ringing the reception desk, the manager explains that it's summertime so they've turned off the underfloor heating. It would cost $300 to turn it on again, and take a couple of hours to heat up. Strange that they hadn't mentioned this before I checked in and paid in advance. With my payment already taken, he doesn't sound very sympathetic or apologetic and, although I understand the hard economics of it, I'm annoyed. He does say there's an electric heater in each apartment. He forgets to mention that the bed has electric blankets, but I find these too. So I turn everything on maximum, partly to get some heat in the place, and partly a gesture of defiance against his dismissive attitude. In a cold (but warming) room, I climb into a nice warm bed, and am asleep almost immediately.

13th November: Visiting agencies in Auckland

2007-11-14T17:01:00.000-08:00

I'm up early. I dress in last night's clothes and have a light breakfast. Then, back to my room, shave, shower, get into my smart-casual clothes, and set off to the first meeting. It's ten minutes walk, during which time I take in the Auckland surroundings. Auckland, or this part of it, is just like any other city. Office blocks, with the usual supporting cast of bars, cafes, restaurants etc.

I arrive at the offices of High Street IT. I meet several of the consultants and have some good discussions about my prospects, my preferences, the timescales etc. It all sounds encouraging, and I get a good feeling about these people. They identify some clients who might be interested. One organisation in particular, that doesn't have a current vacancy but is always eager to see people who have particular skills and experience. My CV has caught everyone's attention, and they think this client will be keen. I leave High Street's offices feeling more optimistic than I've felt for weeks back in Australia.

At the next agency, I meet a guy who was actually my contact for a while when I worked back in Nottingham. Small world. He's been out in Auckland for about a year, and loves it so far. leaving that agency, I have some lunch and then go to see another agency and hear more positive noises. Then I visit Absolute IT - a contact that my friend Gary provided. Pauline is interested in my CV, and says I have good prospects of finding work. She also forwards my details to a colleague in the Wellington office.

When all the meetings are over, I walk around the CBD, and relax a little. I don't have any interviews lined up, but it does look like I'll find work in New Zealand. It's time to see just a little bit of Auckland. I see the sky tower up close, and walk up and down some of the surprisingly steep hills in the centre. But I'll need to get further out of the city before I can get a sense of Auckland's identity, and that will have to wait for another day. Today, it just feels like any other city.

But today has turned out well. I feel optimistic for the first time in several weeks.

12th November: New Zealand at last!

2007-11-13T06:33:00.000-08:00

Today's the day I finally go to New Zealand. When I first left my permanent job, over ten years ago, I was intending to go there. But before I bought my tickets, I was offered a six month contract, paying good money. It was too good an opportunity to miss, so I thought I'd work for 6 months and go to New Zealand after that. But one contract led to another, and it's only now - ten years later - that I'm finally going to get there.

I'm looking forward to it. I've always been attracted by the world famous New Zealand scenery and the sporting culture. It has a reputation for being 30 years behind the UK but I'm sure that, in these times of the internet and satellite television, it can't be that bad. On the other hand, my excitement is tempered by the knowledge that I have to try and get work. This won't be much of a holiday, although I do want to see as much of the country as I can.

I have informal meetings with agencies but no interviews, so I'm intending to travel light. My interview clothes will stay in Brisbane. I pack a little 'smart casual' stuff for the meetings, and the rest is jeans, shorts, etc. My day in Brisbane is pretty relaxed. I head to the airport in the early afternoon, ready for my 5:15 flight to Auckland. Paddy thought I was being extra cautious, but I'm glad I've given myself plenty of time - the check-in queues are horrendous.

Check-in takes ages, but I finally get through to the departure lounge and have time for a quick coffee before boarding. Three hours later, I'm taking my first breaths of New Zealand air.

At the taxi rank, I'm approached by a man who says I can take a taxi of my own, or I can get a shared minibus that stops at any hotel in the city. The minibus it is. The driver loads my bag in the back, and I climb in, joining three other people already inside. In the next few minutes, two more people climb in, and we're on our way.

The minibus wanders through the night, taking its cargo of strangers through the dimly lit suburbs of Auckland. Behind me, a German girl and a Uruguayan guy have a faltering conversation in English, asking where they're going, where they've been etc. The minibus drops him at a guest house in a leafy residential street, and the journey continues in silence except for the rattling diesel engine and the Chinese-sounding music playing on the driver's radio. I stare out of the window at the streetlit shops, letterboxes, telegraph poles, and it feels like I'm in a film.

As we approach the centre of Auckland, I catch a few tantalising glimpses of the Sky Tower, lit up against the night sky. Two more stops. Two more strangers go on their way. Then the driver calls out the name of my hotel. I get out of the minibus, collect my bag, pay my money and walk into the Copthorne on Anzac Avenue. I check in, get showered, get changed and walk out into the Auckland night.

I chose this hotel because it's within easy walking distance of the agencies that I'm visiting in the next couple of days. Tonight, I explore some of the local area and get my bearings. Then it's back to the hotel, and an early night. Tomorrow I have to meet with three different agencies.

8th & 9th November: Setting up meetings in New Zealand

2007-11-10T15:57:00.000-08:00

I spend Thursday and Friday looking for job opportunities in New Zealand and sending off my CV. My mate Gary, who lives in New Zealand, gives me some contacts. By Friday morning, I've set up four meetings with agencies in Auckland next week.

On Friday afternoon, I go for a drive to clear my head. I head down towards the Gold Coast. Sometimes my head spins, and sometimes I'm numb from the last few days. But it's anice daya and a nice drive. I decide to call in at Yatala Pies. Dean was singing their praises at Paddy & Vicky's barbie. As I sit at one of the tables under the verandah, eating a steak pie, I'm unfulfilled. Dean is a great bloke - genuine, friendly, a good laugh etc, but I conclude that he doesn't know his pies. I was hoping for juicy chunks of steak, bathing in a thick flavoursome gravy, encased in a homely pastry. The pastry is good, the gravy is a little too runny, but distressingly, the 'chunks' of meat are pretty close to minced beef. It's a nice-tasting pie, but just not chunky enough. Stockman's Pies in Bulimba, just round the road from Paddy's house, wins the prize so far.

Nevertheless it's a small but welcome 'good experience'. After a week like this one, at least it's been a good afternoon.

7th November: The job offer is withdrawn

2007-11-08T15:37:00.000-08:00

This morning I find myself caught in a flurry of phone calls. Mel at the agency is trying to reach me. Christine is trying to reach me. Lisa is trying to reach me to say that Christine is trying to reach me. At the end of the first round of calls, I've learned that the job offer is hanging by a thread.

Apparently, while I was back in the UK, the Australian government changed the rules about who could award 457 visas (a certain category of sponsored work visa). And now, at this final hurdle, it looks like I can't get a work visa. No work visa, no offer.

The rest of the day is more of the same. Christine is asking me what's going wrong, but I don't know any more than she does. Lisa is telling me I need to keep on top of the agency, but my phone is already red hot. Mel is telling me that she's called the relevant people in the agency, and they've said there's nothing they can do. Before I went to the UK, they could have issued me a 457 visa straight away. Now that the rules have changed, they can't. It's as simple as that. No agency is allowed to sponsor someone. QPS doesn't sponsor anyone. I have no way of getting the work visa that I need. By the end of the day, the offer from QPS has been withdrawn.

I'm back to square one. Worse in fact. I have no chance of getting work in Australia unless I apply for residency in my own right, or Paddy sponsors me. Both of those options will take months.

I'm screwed in Australia. Next week's visit to New Zealand has turned from a long-awaited tourist & scouting visit to a full-on jobsearch visit.

6th November: Offer from QPS and some feedback from Christine

2007-11-07T15:20:00.000-08:00

Christine wants to meet me. Strolling to Kiss My Coffee, I'm wondering what's gone wrong, but it's not as bad as that. Christine wants to outline a slight change in the role, caused by other circumstances within the project. She asks if I'm still interested. I am.

She also explains the puzzling event during the interview. When they asked that question, there were certain things they were looking for in my answer. Apparently I gave them everything except one. As it happens, I gave the missing piece of the jigsaw in one of my later answers. So, at the end of the interview, they all looked at each other and thought it had been a bit strange, but I had ended up covering everything they wanted and I got the job.

So I confirm that I'm still interested, Christine says she'll get onto the HR people today, and hopefully (for all concerned) the paperwork can go through quickly. we finish our drinks, shake hands, and go our separate ways.

I ring Mel at the agency, and upate her. Later, Mel rings me back and confirms that QPS are intending to offer me the job. They just need HR to get the paperwork through.

I'm close, but I was close in Sydney too.

5th November: Interview with QPS

2007-11-06T14:44:00.000-08:00

Today I have an interview at QPS. So it's on with the suit, walk to Morningside station, and get the train to Roma Street. I'm quietly confident. Christine and Lisa have outlined the role to me and I know that, when the applications were being sifted, I came out top of every selection criterion except one, in which I freely admitted I had no real experience. So, without taking anything for granted, I know that I'm in with a good chance.

I'm interviewd by three people - Christine, a man from another team within the IT project, and a police sergeant who is attached to the project as the business expert. I've been told in advance that the sergeant is a bit of a tough character and will probe for weaknesses. As it happens, we get on pretty well. The interview seems to go well enough until, having finished one of my answers, Christine is looking at me with a "Yes, that was good so far. Carry on." expression. She's trying to encourage me to finish, but I don't know what I've missed. I say so, and they move on to the next question. The rest of the interview seems to go well enough, and there are a few nodding heads and approving expressions (including from the sergeant) and many things I say are noted down. At the end, there are handshakes all round, and I step back out into the Brisbane heat. I think back to the answer that Christine was trying to get me to finish. I still can't think what I'd missed. I can't think of anything in the interview that I didn't answer. I'm puzzled, but there's nothing I can do about it now. And anyway, there are other things I have to attend to. When Lisa and I worked together in England, the dress code was casual (and some peope took that to extremes). So, now that the interview is finished, I'm supposed to ring Lisa so she can see me wearing a suit.

Ten minutes later, Lisa is standing in front of me laughing. But I know she's secretly turned on.

We talk for maybe 10 minutes and then she goes back to work and I go back to Hawthorne to get into my normal attire - shirt, cargo shorts and flip-flops.

3rd November - Paddy & Vicky's barbecue

2007-11-04T13:55:00.000-08:00

Paddy mentioned a while ago that he hasn't really got to know his neighbours. They invited him & Vicky to see the bloke's band playing a gig (the neighbour is a drummer). But, with Paddy setting up his business, P & V were skint and didn't go. Paddy's been saying they ought to invite the neighbours round sometime. Well tonight P & V are finally hosting a small barbecue. But they haven't invited the neighbours. P & V are hopeless.

They have invited Mark & Lisa, Paul & Dawn, and some people I'll be meeting for the first time. Dean (someone Paddy knows from his time in Sydney) and Dean's girlfriend Sally. Some other friends were invited too - a girl that Vicky used to work with and her husband. But they have a baby boy who's fallen ill, so they can't make it tonight. But we're all looking forward to the evening.

While I was away, Paddy improvised some removable decking - varnished some pallettes and nailed some planks of wood together. We lay them down on the lawn behind the house. Then, a variety of delicous foods are laid out on the table. An esky is filled with ice and then bottles of beer. We're all set.

One by one, the guests arrive, the wine and beers start flowing, and the party gets going. It's good to catch up with Mark, Lisa, Paul and Dawn again. And it's good to meet Dean and Sal. I don't get to talk to Sal much - the girls all start chattering away. But Dean is a good bloke. He's set up his own business in Brisbane and it's doing really well. And, without realising it, he stands like a super hero - stick a cape on him and he'd look like he's ready to fly. He's also super-friendly and a good laugh. The whole evening goes really well. So well, in fact, that Dawn has laughing fit - one of the strangest things I've ever seen. I have no idea what triggered it, but I suddenly become aware that Dawn is trying to speak but failing. Her sentences are starting off ok, but after a couple of words, the sentence just dissolves into high pitched laughs, then go ultrasonic, and then there's no sound at all. Just silent laughter and an apparent inability to speak. Everyone else is stunned, but slowly we all end up laughing along, just at the strangeness of it. As for Paul, he's used to it and just shrugs.

Drink keeps flowing until deep into the warm Brisbane night. The music keeps playing. The conversation keeps humming. By the time things wrap up, we barely have the energy to clear the plates away. But we must - otherwise the place will be crawling with ants by the morning. 15 minutes later, with the guests all gone and my eyelids heavy, I bid P & V goodnight, and go wearily but happily to bed.

30th & 31st October: Back to Oz

2007-10-31T23:59:00.000-07:00

Monday 29th October, and I'm on the train to London. Tomorrow I fly back to Brisbane, and tonight I'm staying with a friend in East London. Gazing out of the window, it's a fairly bright autumn afternoon. I think about what awaits me in Australia, the interview that has been arranged for me while I've been home. In a week's time, I'll be sitting in front of three people from the Queensland Police Service, trying to impress them enough to offer me a contract. I'm fairly confident without thinking it's in the bag. I have an idea what the job will entail, and I know I can do it. So, right now, I'm thinking about the trip and where I might live if I do get offered the job. I'd like to rent a place as soon as I can, so that I'm not taking too many liberties with Paddy & Vicky's hospitality.

I arrive in London, then it's a tube journey and then a taxi ride and I'm at Monique's house. She shares a flat with her cousin Cleveland (we all call him Clee), and I've know them both for years. I haven't seen Cle for ages, so it's good to say hello again. Monique has cooked a meal for me and manages not to poison me. We talk rubbish for a while, before I settle down for a night on the sofa. Monique shows me where I can get an extra blanket if I'm too cold. I don't think I'll need it. The room is hotter than Brisbane!

I'm up early the next morning. I don't fly out until around 10pm, so I'll mooch around the capital for the day. But first, as Monique catches her bus into work, I sit down in a small cafe and have a leisurely breakfast. The food is normal standard for cooked breakfast, but the coffe is amazingly good. I have a refill, and then head into London.

The bus takes about an hour, which I spend looking out of the window and thinking of nothing much. I get off at Tottenham Court Road, hoping to find a phone that will allow me to use the Australian jobseeking websites. It's been frustrating having to stay close to internet cafes in Australia. I spent several weeks out there, but haven't seen as much as I would have liked. If I can find a phone that works with the websites, I can explore more and not be so dependent on Paddy's laptop. I go into the Easy Internet cafe, and search for phones that might do the job. I find something that looks promising, and start scouring the shops across the road, to see if I can get one. They all seem over-priced and I don't buy one, but I do buy some decent earphones for my MP3 player. The guy behind the counter says that, if I pay him cash, and am not bothered about the slightly damaged box or the guarantee, I can have them at less than half price. I'm no expert on earphones, but I do know that this is a bargain. Twenty pounds lighter, I'm back in the Easy internet cafe. I have a frustrating call to the VAT office - I spent the preveious days trying to do my VAT returns online but the website was experiencing difficulties. Today, in the Easy Internet cafe, I'm still unable to pay. I'll have to do that from Australia. Meanwhile, I try the new earbuds and am impressed.

I spend the rest of the day just killing time on Oxford Street and the surrounding area. The bus ride back to Monique's seems to take for ever. I collect my bags, then get a taxi to the tube, and on to Heathrow. There's plenty of construction work going on, so there's a fair amount of walking until I get to Terminal 3 departures. But I'm there in reasonable time, or so I think.

Arriving at the check-in lounge, I get my plane tickets out and stare at them in dismay. I'm 12 hours late for my flight. No matter how hard I stare at the numbers, and how much I think about ways in which I might be reading them incorrectly, the reality is there in black and white. I'm 12 hours late. While I was sitting on the bus into London this morning, my plane to Kuala Lumpur was flying out of London, probably right over my head.

In recent weeks I've looked at so many different flights (and booked a return flight from Australia to New Zealand) and that I've mixed up my am's and pm's. My heart sinks and, shame-faced, I go to the desk to explain what's happened. I can't kill off the ridiculous hope that the lady will say "It's fine sir. You are here in time. The ticket is confusing." Obviously, that's not the answer I get. I am in luck though. For a small administration fee, they can get me on the next flight to KL. I'll be in Brisbane a day later than planned, but that's not the end of the world. I let Paddy know that I'll be a day late, and then settle into the flight.

Arriving in KL airport, I book into the airport hotel, have a shower and a change of clothes, and take the unexpected opportunity to go into the centre and look at the Petronas Towers. The train from the airport is pristine, exactly on time, smooth, fast and quiet. Like a Swiss burglar, I imagine. It's night time, so there's nothing much to see outside the train, until we approach KL itself. The metropolis grows bigger and then I can see the Petronas towers. They're quite a distance away, but they shine very brightly. Then they're obscured again, I don't know by what. It could be trees or hedges or a wall. It could be anything - all I can see is darkness. I read through the little tourist map that I picked up at the airport.

Arriving in KL, I walk out into the night, and am hit by a wall of heat and humidity. It's pretty uncomfortable, and confusing too. I eventually get some instructions that I can follow, and walk through a bustling street market until I reach another station where I'll get the monorail into town. Armed with my little maps, I know where I'm going, so when I get on the monorail I have time to look at my surroundings instead of looking at station names. I see three European looking men at the other end of the carriage - they don't like they should have anything in common. They seem to be different ages, different tastes in clothing, different incomes. Knowing that I'm guessing a lot from their appearances, I still nevertheless have the feeling that they're there for reasons that would embarrass them if they were caught on a documentary about the seemy side of KL. Then, depressingly, I realise that people could be thinking exactly the same about me. Luckily, at that point I reach my stop, and my brain is occupied with trying to get to the towers. I don't have a lot of time, so I jump in a taxi and enjoy a stereotypically death-defying ride through traffic until we reach them. I realise now why they looked so bright from the train. They seem to be made of mirror-like metal, and they're brightly lit from all angles by powerful spotlights all the way up. I'm just too late to go inside, so I just walk around outside and look up at them, and take photos with my phone.

But I can't wait long. I have to get back and get on the train back to the hotel. A taxi driver asks if I want a ride anywhere. I decline - it's hot and humid but I want to at least walk through some of the city. My sense of direction, and my map, will see me through. But he's persistent.
"You sure? Come on. I take you to party. Girls!"

Ahhh, I see. I decline again, and just keep walking until his words are inaudible behind me. I'm walking past some bars that looked pretty lively as we drove past in the first taxi. I won't have time for a drink, but they look interesting inside. They suddenly become quite interesting outside too, as I'm approached by someone else offering to take me to a party. There'll be girls there too, apparently. Moving on, I receive similar offers from four different people in less than 100 metres. KL certainly is a party town! Thankfully leaving that road behind, I turn left up a quieter road, with the monorail (or perhaps an elevated road) above my head. Suddenly a woman moves towards me an makes me an offer too. Apparently she doesn't need to take me to a party. She can provide the party herself. I decline politely and move on. But in no time, a man pulls up next to me on a scooter, and offers to give me a lift to yet another party. Girls, lots of girls. "No thanks", I said, and he was instantly 50 metres up the road, making a similar offer to someone else. I was relieved to finally emerge back into the lights near one of the shopping arcades. Having made faster progress than I thought, I have a beer in a small bar, and try not to how much it just cost. Then it's back on the monorail where I stand under the air conditioning. The air is gratifyingly freezing, although I'll probably get pneumonia. Walking back through the market, I'm persuaded to try some local delicacy that looks like crispy fried chicken. I find that it really is crispy fried chicken, and it's almost unbelievably delicious.
I buy a bag of it and eat it on the train back to the airport. Getting off at the other end, it's back to my air-conditioned room, and a fantastic night's sleep.

The following morning, I'm up early but feeling good. Everything packed, wearing fresh clothes, I have breakfast surrounded by air hostesses from three or four different airlines. It's surprising to see some of them wolfing down bowls of chicken chow mein, egg fried rice etc. I have a few of the hot items (some scrambled egg and some bacon), but mainly I get stuck into loads of fruits that I've never seen before. Dragon fruit becomes my favourite ever, partly because of its appearance. Dark red peel, but inside the flesh is white with tiny black seeds. I've no idea what else it tastes like - I can't compare it with anything. Then I see some yellow dragon fruit, and that's amazing too. It does taste subtly different from the red, but they're both delicious. I must get some more from somewhere.

But not now. It's time to get back on the plane, and endure the final leg of the journey. One uneventful flight to Brisbane, one short car journey, and I'm finally back in Hawthorne - 24 hours after I should have arrived. Unsurprisingly it's fiercely hot again but, just like the first time, it's good to be here.

8th & 9th October: Back to the UK

2007-10-10T15:39:00.000-07:00

Monday morning dawns. In 18 hours I'll be taking off from Brisbane airport, heading back to the UK for a friend's wedding. The sky is blue but more storms are forecast for later. I contemplate a last day at Straddie Island, but the return journey will eat into the day and I don't want to risk any ferry delays due to bad weather. So I have a leisurely session of packing, and then head out in The Rig to kill some time.

I end up down near the Gold Coast, in an area called Labrador that has lots of jetski shops. I've done jetskiing many years ago, and would love to do more of it. So I go into each of the shops and start learning what things I should be looking for, how much they cost etc. I'm not seriously thinking of buying (maybe one day?) but it's interesting and the time passes quickly.

On the way home I see that, up ahead, the late afternoon sky is ominously dark. I can tell that the most menacing area - almost as black as night - is exactly in the direction I'm driving. For the second day in a row, I have a nail-biting drive under malevolently dark skies, with lightning flying in all directions. For the second day in a row, as I sit with no roof or doors around me, every set of traffic lights brings me grins and thumbs up signs from people in their cosily weatherproof cars. Even the pedestrains, as exposed as I am, are cheered up when they see me. Miraculously, with lightning and thunder every 15 seconds, the first drops of rain start falling just as I reverse The Rig into the protection of the covered carport back at the house. Ten seconds after I walk into the house, the deluge arrives.

The storm is spectacular - even more spectacular than yesterday, and I try to capture it on video. The camera isn't really up to it though, and I give up. The next few hours I watch the storm slowly drift towards the airport, and then out to sea. The flight might be bumpy, but it won't be cancelled.

A light meal, and then Paddy & Vicky give me a lift to the airport. A couple of goodbye hugs, and then I'm checking in - heading back to the UK, without a job offer, but with a reasonable chance of one when I return in a couple of weeks time.

1st - 7th October: More Straddie, and more news from Sydney

2007-10-08T03:14:00.000-07:00

Monday arrives, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed for some news about the Sydney job. I ring Steve at the agency, but he hasn't heard from Commonwealth Bank. He says he'll chase them. Meanwhile, I decide to go back to my new favourite place - Straddie Island. I leave The Rig on the mainland. Taking a car is too expensive for just one person who's just going to the far end of the bus route. So I just go back to Cylinder Beach, bob about in the surf for a while, have some food in a cafe at Point Lookout, and generally do nothing much.

There's no phone signal on the island but, sitting on the afternoon ferry back to the mainland, I ring Steve again. He's spoken to Commonwealth, but they don't have any more news. It's frustrating, as I should have had an answer last Friday. But it's only been a couple of working days since the interview, so I remind myself that it's not unusual for delays like this, especially if they're trying to get an answer from a manager who isn't around. I suppress the feelings that something is going wrong. Nevertheless, when I mention it to Lisa, she says that there's definitely work available for me at Queensland Police. Helpful as always, she sets up a meeting with a colleague of hers - a Project Manager who needs an outstanding chap like me.

So, on Tuesday morning, I'm strolling through Brisbane's CBD, on my way to a coffee shop where I'm to meet Lisa and her colleague Christine. My phone rings, and Lisa tells me to come to a place on George Street called Kiss My Coffee! I'll recognise it by the pink sign over the door! She finds my dismay hilarious. I can't believe I have to go and talk to my potential boss in a pink-signed place called Kiss My Coffee. I forewarn her that I'm not wearing hotpants, and she just laughs even more at my discomfort. In the background, I hear Christine saying "No hotpants? Ahh, what a shame". I walk on, wondering what kind of early morning experience I'm letting myself in for. Sure enough, toward the bottom end of George Street, I see the dreaded pink sign (Lisa forgot to mention the love hearts), I clear my throat and practice saying hello in a gruff Yorkshire baritone. The morning sunshine is bright, and the inside of the coffee shop is dark. My eyes trying to adjust, I think I can see Lisa sitting next to a woman with short blonde hair. I stride in.

"Hi Jerry. Christine, this is Jerry. Jerry, this is Christine"
"Hello Jerry. Pleased to meet you."
"Hello Christine. Pleased to meet you too."

We shake hands.

Lisa and Christine have drinks already. I get a glass of water, and sit down to chat. My eyes have adjusted to the light, and I see that Kiss My Coffee is a small coffee shop with a strong 'music' theme. The posters on the wall include Hendrix, The Doors, Bowie, Zeppelin, and numerous other legends. I'm pleased to see AC/DC represented, and even more pleased when the opening chords of "Highway To Hell" fill the room.

We chat about almost everything except work. We talk about how long I've been in Brisbane, and what I think of the place. We talk about when Lisa and I worked together in England. We talk about Christine's travels around Australia and New Zealand. She seems to think that, having spent so many years away from Germany, she has hardly any accent left. In fact, she has an accent that wouldn't be out of place in 'Allo 'Allo. But she's friendly and she's nice and, when we finally get round to talking about work, she clearly knows what she's talking about.

The work is more technical that what I normally do, but we talk about this and both Lisa and Christine are sure that I'll be fine. I'm happy to trust them, and confirm that I'm interested. Leaving Kiss My Coffee, I've warmed to the place. The seats are comfortable, the music is good, the decor is interesting without trying too hard to be cool, and the air-conditioning is a lifesaver.

I get a follow-up text from Christine and one from Lisa. It all looks good.

I walk around the CBD for a while, and then through Fortitude Valley and down into New Farm. I check a motorbike shop that should be selling a bike I'm interested in - a Moto Morini Corsaro. Before I came to Australia, I was going to test-ride one in the UK. They were unknown at the time, but they've had some press coverage since then, and been getting good reviews. The prospects of haggling a discount are looking less likely. Unfortunately, although this is my third visit, the bikes still haven't arrived. Maybe my test ride will be back in the UK after all.

The rest of the day, I amble around, pondering the Sydney situation and the QPS role. I speak to Dawn, who's interested in seeing Straddie Island. Paul might visit one day, but he's just started his new job. And anyway, Dawn is his guinea pig. If she says it's ok, and the ferry ride won't make him seasick, he'll come along another time. Dawn and I make plans to go tomorrow.

Wednesday arrives and I call round on Paul and Dawn. Their new apartment is good, with a nice tiled yard out the back with a barbecue that's the size of an entire stainless steel kitchen. It was a great deal apparently. It looks like it weighs as much as The Rig. The three of us chat for a while, until we bid Paul farewell, and hit the road.

Driving in The Rig, with no doors and no roof, is a very different experience. I love it, and I've started to feel quite confined in cars that have doors and a roof. But I'm not sure what Dawn will think of it. It can be quite a vulnerable feeling, especially zipping along the Highway in shorts and flip flops (or thongs as the Aussies insist on calling them). But I needn't have worried - Dawn seems to be enjoying the experience - a ride that takes "wind in the hair" to new extremes.

With a guest and some luggage, we take The Rig gets to visit Straddie again. Dawn likes it, although she's rubbish at going in the sea. She gingerly wades into the surf, and after about half an hour, she's probably knee deep. She eventually gets in as far as her waist, but isn't really interested in splashing around like I am. She has a book to read, so she returns to dry sand while I continue to splash around like an idiot.

We then go for a bite to eat in the cafe at the Stradbroke Hotel. Looking at other plates, the burgers look great, as do the steaks. But it's too hot for that kind of food, so I go for a Caesar salad. When that arrives, that's good too.

We head back to the ferry and, when I finally drop Dawn off at her place, I now have a buddy who can talk about Straddie Island. We both bore Paul for a while. I stay for a while and have a drink and a chat. On the way home, I still haven't heard from Steve at the agency. I've been too busy to chase him today, but it's starting to feel like bad news is imminent. We'll see what (if anything) happens tomorrow.

On Thursday, I speak again to Steve, and it's not sounding so good. The project that Commonwealth had in mind for me has gone on hold. It could be an excuse, but the guys did seem keen on the phone and when I was there at the interview. So I tell myself that they're telling the truth. Not that it matters. The key point is that the almost-firm offer is slowly turning to vapour. I also get a text from Christine, who wants to meet. This sounds more promising. We had one meeting in the coffee shop that seemed to go well. Christine wants to meet in the same place, so that doesn't sound like a formal interview. I can't take anything for granted, but I do wonder whether she's just saying that I can have the job, and negotiate a start date.

The truth is somewhat different. Christine talks me through the next steps which are, essentially, that she has to go through all the normal procedures. It's not a complete surprise - funded by taxpayers, QPS has to demonstrate high standards in the way they spend the public's money. But it's still frustrating. It's clear that I won't be going back to the UK with a firm job offer. Nevertheless, contracting is full of hiccups, so I put in a formal application and cross my fingers.

There's just one ordeal remaining. For weeks, the Australian television coverage has talked about getting revenge over the English in the Rugby World Cup. TV adverts have, with no trace of good nature, talked about revenge. While the Aussies that I meet are all good people, some of the TV pundits are appalling in their coverage. There's a clear hierarchy for some of them - Australia can do no wrong and never commit any foul play, other teams are good but they do commit fouls (especially against Australia) and they exaggerate perfectly safe Aussie tackles to make them look bad. And then there's the English, who are rubbish, are over-protected glory boys (especially Johnny Wilkinson) and are about to get the hiding of their lives. To be fair, some of the pundits (two in particular, although I don't know their names) are very fair to all the teams. But the others (and one middle-aged guy in particular) are arrogant in ways I've never seen before. To paraphrase Kevin Keegan, I'd LOVE it if we beat them.

When the day comes, both Paddy and I are tired and, although we contemplate going to watch the game in a bar somewhere, we decide to watch it at home. The bars will all be absolutely heaving, and neither of us can be bothered wading through huge crowds to get beer.

The very last advert before the game shows George Gregan looking intent, with a strapline confirming that the time has finally come, and England are about to be humbled.

So it's with a mixture of elation and regret that we watch England beat the Wallabies 12-10. Mainly elation though. It would be great to see the reactions in bars around the city, although I have nothing against the Aussies I've met. It would be even better to hear some of the biased pundits choking on their words. But we're just granted a couple of short minutes of analysis, mainly from the pundits who've been fair all the way through. The others are notably silent, and the worst one isn't even there.

It doesn't matter too much though. I know that, somewhere, they're feeling angry and stupid and probably blaming the result on everything except Australia not playing well enough to win.

England 12, Australia 10. It's a good way to end a day.

30th September: The Rig visits Straddie

2007-09-30T23:59:00.000-07:00

Sunday dawns, and I decide I'm going back to Straddie Island, to watch the NRL Grand Final in the bar overlooking the beach. This time, I'm taking The Rig across.

The drive to Cleveland is as easy as before, but this ferry terminal actually looks like a ferry terminal. The ticket office is still a portakabin, but it's a bigger one. Pretty soon, The Rig and I are on the Stradbroke car ferry. Arriving into a different part of Dunwich (compared with Friday), I'm soon on the road to the Stradbroke Hotel. It's a great drive in The Rig. It feels like it was made for trips like this. I've learned that the authorities allow 4x4s to drive on some of the beaches, although you need a permit first. I don't bother. It might look good on the tv, but I feel that beaches are no place for cars, even beaches as big as Cylinder. I ponder as I drive. Maybe some of the truly vast beaches would be ok - the ones that are 10 miles long or more. There's probably enough space for a noisy 4x4 to drive around without spoiling it for bathers.

Nevertheless, just before the Stradbroke Hotel, there's a short track to the left that allows access to the beach. I take The Rig a short way down, and take a photo to show Paddy.

Then, it's back out onto proper tarmac, where I park at the side of the road and head to the bar. The game has been going quite a while and there's a big crowd of people watching. It seems like a lot of beer has been drunk, and there's a lot of good natured laughter, but the atmosphere isn't as lively as I'd expected. The scoreboard tells me why. It's a one-sided game, with Melbourne thumping Manly. I have a beer, stay for a while, but the game just isn't worth watching. It's all over as a contest, and Manly aren't looking like scoring. So I take the Rig a short distance further, to the car park right next to the Cylinder Beach campsite which is, in turn, right next to the beach itself.

I've brought my beach gear this time, so I get changed (good changing rooms) and in no time I'm in the Pacific. The water is nice and cool, but not cold, and I spend much longer than I realise just heading out and enjoying the waves. Their faces were possibly as big as 5 feet high, but never menacing or dangerous. I'm intending to learn to surf sometime, so I'm using this time in the water to start getting a feel for how the sea behaves. I soon convince myself I'm a natural waterman. I have an instinctive understanding all marine things and, in turn, they welcome me as one of their own. I respect the ocean, and the ocean respects me.

Too soon, I have to go back, get changed, and get back to the ferry. Another cool drive home, and I bore Paddy and Vicky once more. Bless them.

28th September: Discovering North Stradbroke Island

2007-09-29T00:03:00.000-07:00

Steve, from the agency, has received feedback from Commonwealth Bank. I did well, and they're figuring out what start date to offer me. I should hear in a couple of days. Excellent.

Now I can relax a little, and be a bit more of a tourist than a frustrated jobseeker. I start thinking about places to visit. Looking at the local maps, I ask Paddy about North Stradbroke Island. He's never been there, so I decide I'll represent. I surf the web for a while, searching for ferries and checking timetables. It's damned expensive to take a car across, and there aren't many sailings around lunch time. So I'll go across on the excitingly-named Stradbroke Flyer. That's exactly the kind of high speed, glamorous craft I deserve. It sails from a town called Cleveland, about 40 minutes drive from Brisbane. I consult my Refidex street map, plan a route, glug some water, and I'm on my way. Sure enough, about 40 minutes later, I'm at the Stradbroke Flyer ferry terminal.

For foot passengers taking the fast ferry, the terminal is actually just a small car park and a portakabin. I apologise to The Rig, leave him under the scorching Queensland sun, and head for the shaded sanctuary of the portakabin ticket office. It's a disappointment. It's almost as hot inside, and there's no breeze. I'm glad I don't have to work in here. I buy my ticket, and head back outside to meet the sleek thoroughbred boat, gleaming in the sunshine. When I see it, I can't help chuckling to myself. The Stradbroke Flyer isn't very different from the portakabin ticket office! Still, I have my ticket to ride, and the timetable showed that it takes less than half as long as the car ferry. So I take my place with the other passengers, standing at the top of the gangway, I watch fish swimming four feet below, and listen to the waves lapping gently against the wall. Ten skin-searing minutes later, we're beckoned aboard. The interior is clean, functional, and no-frills. But the engine sounds and feels smooth as we navigate our way along the channel that meanders away from the terminal. After a few minutes of slow passage we reach open waters, the throttles are opened, and the Stradbroke Flyer spreads its wings!

It's still not very fast (or it doesn't feel it), but we do catch and overtake the car ferry that left Cleveland about 30 minutes before us. Arriving at 1 mile jetty in Dunwich, we're released onto the gangway and I'm on North Stradbroke Island (or Straddie, as we locals call it). In the car park (even smaller than the one I left behind on the mainland), a minibus is waiting. Several of us board, sit in the sun-baked minibus while the driver has a quick chat with one of his mates, and then we're on our way. Relief! With doors and windows open, the bus cools down quickly and it's a nice journey. We're on a wide, well surfaced country road that winds along the coast for a few kilometres before heading inland and taking us on a tour through the bush. I gaze out of the window, contemplating the mountain biking possibilities around here. There are occasional small settlements, with holiday accommodation and camping available. A scuba centre, a backpacker hostel, but generally it steel feels fairly unspoiled. But half an hour is long enough on this bus, which is fortunate because that's how long it takes to reach the end of this route. I've arrived in Point Lookout.

Point lookout is a collection of bars, cafes and restaurants, and quite a lot of houses being built. Brisbane money is finding a new home in North Stradbroke Island, it seems. I buy a bottle of water, and drink it as I stroll back down the road to the Stradbroke Hotel. We passed it in the bus as we approached Point Lookout, and it's only a 5 minute walk back.

The hotel has clearly just had a lot of work done - all the walls and metal surfaces look fresh and new. The flower beds outside have young shrubs, recently planted, as small splashes of green in the dark brown soil and bark. Through a small walkway, I reach an open, airy cafe/restaurant on my left, and an equally open and airy bar on the right. Both of them have fantastic views of the Pacific. This is quite a place! I have a beer and a sandwich in the bar and watch some tv, and decide this would be a good place to watch the Aussie Rules Grand Final on Sunday. I chat to the barman, and we talk about the drink driving limits. They generally say 2 drinks in the first hour, and then one drink an hour after that. Or something along those lines. I'm not driving anyway, so it doesn't really matter.

I leave the bar, walk through the paved area outside, with people eating and drinking at the outdoor tables. Secluded from the road, peaceful, and overlooking the ocean, it's a fantastic setting to have a meal (the food looks really good) and a drink. I'll have to look this place up on the internet. But right now, I walk across the gravel car park, down the steps, turn right and along the path through the trees, and emerge onto Cylinder Beach.

It's a sight to see! Bright white sand, with hardly anybody around. To my left, there's a large lagoon which must have been left behind by the sea, although there's no sign that the sea has reached this far. The sand is completely dry, and squeaks underfoot. Obviously I have to try the water, and tiny fish flee in all directions as I paddle along the edge. The water is easily as warm as a bath. But it's too deep for me to walk across the middle - I'm wearing cargo shorts but I don't fancy soaking them in sea water when, ahead of me, I have a bus ride followed by a ferry ride followed by a car journey. So I skirt the edge of the lagoon and head out, away from the trees on my right, and towards the ocean on my left. The further I walk, the more I can see the rest of the beach, and it's enormous. It would probably take 30 minutes to walk its length, but I don't bother. It's fine where I am, and I'm kicking myself for not bringing any swimming gear. Just along to my right, there's a section of beach where people are swimming, between flags, watched by a couple of lifeguards. The rest of this enormous, white, sundrenched beach is almost deserted. I'm amazed Paddy and Vicky haven't been here. I'll have to bring them sometime. I paddle a bit more, stroll around a while, but there's only so much time I can spend doing nothing on a beach (about 20 minutes I think). So I make my way back to the Stradbroke Hotel, out of the main entrance, and across the road. Less than a minute later, the bus arrives, and I'm heading back to 1 mile jetty and the Stradbroke Flyer.

There seem to be a lot of people waiting for the ferry, but it swallows us all up easily. It's a misleading boat, that's for sure. Sitting in the open section at the back, a large Aussie guy and his girlfriend are sitting chatting. He reaches into his esky and pulls out a bottle of beer. It's his last one, and he's clearly looking forward to it. A quick rummage in his pockets for his bottle opener, and his brow furrows into a puzzled frown. He rummages some more. This isn't good. He rummages in his bag. His frown is turning to dismay. Eventually, his girlfriend tells him to forget it - maybe it's lost or maybe he can find it later. He looks crestfallen. Reaching into my pocket, I grab my keys - my keyring is a bottle opener.

"You need a bottle opener?" I ask. His face looks up and then lights up.
"Yeah. Do you have one?"
Noncholantly I lob the keys to him.
"Thanks mate." He opens his bottle and lobs the keys back to me.
"You must be a pommie." he says.
"Yep." I confirm.
"Man after my own heart."

That's high praise indeed from an Aussie to a Pom, and his girlfriend looks a bit surprised. Understandable I suppose. She's just sat right next to a bonding experience that she could witness but she'll never understand.

The ferry arrives back at the mainland just as dusk is falling. The sky is clear, and darkening from dark red to purple, with just a few wispy clouds on the horizon. I return to The Rig, and we share a perfect drive through the cool evening air, back to Hawthorne. Back at the house, I bore Paddy & Vicky with stories of how great Cylinder Beach is, and how we have to go. They feed me some food to shut me up, and we watch tv. We have some of the fancy chocolate that I bought on a recent visit to New Farm Deli. When I go to bed, I'm still thinking about Cylinder Beach, and how I'd have been a volunteer lifeguard there if only I'd got a job in Brisbane instead of Sydney. But I'll definitely be back there. Probably in the next couple of days.

24th - 27th September: Interview in Sydney

2007-09-28T03:54:00.000-07:00

Monday morning sees me driving around the Gold Coast looking for places to buy interview clothing. Paddy tells me about a designer outlet at Harbour Town on the Gold Coast. It's a nice 90 minute drive in the Rig, but they're pretty low on stock. If I'd wanted beach shorts I'd have been sorted. A quick but fruitless detour to Westfield in Helensvale, and I'm heading back up the Pacific Motorway empty handed. But there's another Westfield at Carindale, just south of Brisbane, and it does the business. Half an hour later, I'm driving home with a suit and shirt. Paddy is lending me some cufflinks and I'll buy shoes and a tie in Sydney. I hear on a radio that Bondi Beach will be hosting the world's largest ever bikini photo shoot. I hope to make it!

On Tuesday I fly to Sydney and check in at the Lord Nelson Hotel in a district called The Rocks. The room is on the 3rd floor, and has a skylight with no way of blocking out the sun. When I open the door, I'm met by a wall of heat that must have been close to triggering a flashover! With my skin tightening in the heat, I open the window in the bathroom, the window at the front of the room, and position myself in the meagre breeze that results. It's not much, but it's enough to keep me alive.

I unpack, shower, and watch tv while I try to cool down. Eventually giving up, I get dressed and return to the bar, freshened but not refreshed. The beer is good, as is the ploughman's. The bar staff have a debate about where I can buy shoes and a tie, and I set off to see what I can find. I eventually find shoes that I'm happy with but decide to look at more ties tomorrow morning - the interview isn't until the afternoon. Dropping the shoes back at the hotel, I go back out and stroll around Circular Quay. It hasn't changed at all since I was here two years ago. I contemplate the possibility of living and working in Sydney, head back to the hotel, and sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

Wednesday morning, and I have a light breakfast and then set off into the CBD. It's a hot day and I'm not looking forward to wearing a suit later. For now, I'm in my casual gear, and the morning air is still bearable. I ring Steve from the agency, and let him know where I am. It's close to his offices, and we arrange to meet in a hotel lobby. Steve and his colleague Luke are both Brits (the Sydney recruitment world is full of Brits). Good-natured Essex lads, we chat about how each of us ended up in Australia, a bit about football, and a little bit about the interview I'll be attending in 5 hours time. Then it's back out to the shops and I find a tie that I like. I have everything I need.

5 hours later, I'm walking to the offices of the Commonwealth Bank and I pass Steve and Luke in the street. They don't recognise me, in my "whistle" (as we southerners say). I rebuke them and we have a bit of a laugh, and arrange to meet after the interview.

The interview covers a lot of the same ground that the telephone interview covered. They probe me on various key things and I handle everything they throw at me. At the end, they're talking about start dates and everything seems to be falling into place - there's a project they want me to work on and it's currently going through approval. It should be ready to go by the time I get back from the UK. I've done well, and the signs are all positive. I meet Steve and Luke in a nearby bar. We're joined by Paul - an Aussie former Rugby League player who works in a management company. If I'm offered the job, his company will be handling my paperwork - visas etc. We don't talk much business - it's all sport and lifestyle and just getting to know each other. A few beers later, we bid each other cheery farewells. On the way back, I realise that I've missed the bikini photo shoot. I hope the girls regret my absence as much as I do.

Back at the Lord Nelson, I get out of my suit as fast as I can, and take my camera to Circular Quay. It's about time I learned how to use it. Without the manual it's an uninspiring couple of hours until I figure out how to use the long exposure setting. Then, finally, I start getting some decent looking shots.

On Thursday, I visit Manly, and find that the ferry terminal has ben expanded a lot since I was there. It's a shame - it's now a hulking great thing, with several fast food outlets etc. Two years ago, it was just a jetty - large but peaceful. That's progress, I suppose. Manly itself, and the beach, are unchanged. There are signs everywhere for the forthcoming rugby league grand final - fever is taking hold. As for me, I head back to the hotel, collect my bags, and fly back to Brisbane. It's been a good trip.

17th - 23rd September: a phone interview and the Sunshine Coast

2007-09-24T23:00:00.000-07:00

At last! On Monday, I have a telephone interview for a role in Sydney. I have to find somewhere fairly quiet, so I decide on New Farm Park. However, Mother Nature has other ideas. New Farm Park is being buffeted by strong winds, which will make a phone interview impossible. I ring Paddy just to check. Sure enough, he has trouble hearing me - a telephone interview in that wind is doomed. I go along to some of the bars in the Powerhouse building. They don’t open until the evening, so the covered areas outside are deserted. There’s still some wind noise, but the interview goes well and my morale is boosted.

The rest of the week I decide to take an excursion up the Bruce Highway, to explore the mountain bike trails in Mapleton Forest. I buy a Refidex covering Brisbane, the Gold Coast to the South and the Sunshine Coast to the North. (About the size of a phone directory for a medium-sized UK city, Refidex is a combination of detailed street map and wide-ranging road atlas). I'm ready to go. It’s my first long drive in the Rig, and my bike is lashed to the roll bar. Paddy and I have put a lot of thought into lashing the bike securely, and it feels rock solid. Nevertheless, I keep a close eye on it for the first half hour and, when I stop for petrol, I check it well.

On the way to Montville, I pass the Glasshouse Mountains which look amazing in real life, even though I’m not that close to them. But I have no time to go and look. The sun is setting and The Rig is still doorless and topless, so I’m getting pretty cold and I don’t know how far I have left to travel. I motor on, hoping to visit the mountains on the way home.

My accommodation tonight will be the Montville Mountain Inn. Paddy said it's easy to find, and it is. Arriving at Montville, I follow the main road through town and the Mountain Inn appears on the left. I check in and am directed to one of the self-contained units round the back. It’s comfy – a bedroom with mini kitchen and a good bathroom.

I contemplate leaving the bike on the rig. It feels like a really safe place, but caution gets the better of me and I return to the Rig to bring the bike indoors. All the engineering thought that Paddy & I put into this has paid off. After a hundred and fifty kilometers, the bike is as secure as it was when I left the house. I’m the man! And so is Paddy! I clamber all over the Rig as though it's an adventure playground. In just a few minutes, the bike is unstrapped, and safely inside.

I clean up & get changed, and stroll to the pub down the road where a slightly camp Austrian (I think) barman talks affably with his customers. I have a fat steak and a beer, and then head back to bed. I’m looking forward to tomorrow.

Tomorrow dawns and it’s another clear blue sky and already warm at 8am. I have a light breakfast at a local café, strap the bike to The Rig, and set off for Mapleton Forest. I find the forest easily enough, but the trail head isn’t very clear on my maps. The parking area looks too secluded for my peace of mind too - Paddy's only just been reunited with the rig - I don't want to risk it. But I take a photo for Paddy to enjoy and drive back to Mapleton Village, where I leave the Rig somewhere safe, remove the bike and ride back into the forest.

I ride some trails which were more fun than Daisy Hill, but still a slight disappointment. Still the same hybrid of badly surfaced fire road and boring singletrack. But it's bigger than Daisy Hill and I actually feel like I'm in a forest. I find a camping and picnic area and, just beyond I find a lookout that has a view over an enormous forested valley. I get my phone out and take a photo, and then head back to the main trails.

I do some more exploring and, although it's not the twisty singletrack that I'd hoped for, I’m enjoying it. And then a miracle happens – I find a sign that points me down a track, and suddenly I’m in proper, enjoyable mountain biking singletrack! Yay! The only thing missing is mud, but I wasn’t expecting any of that in drought-ravaged Queensland. These trails are fun. Nothing really technical, and nothing too strenuous. I charge around and have a rare old time. If you go to the Mapleton Forest trails, just keep driving along the main fire road until you find a picnic area (with parking & benches) that has big wooden signs pointing to trails fanning out in all directions. This is where I should have started from in the first place.

The rest of the trip is just exploration. I check out the cable waterski place in Bli Bli, I look around Maroochydore, but mainly I drive up to Noosa – a well known destination for Brisbane folk who want nice beaches and relaxation in slightly more restrained and respectful night life than you’ll find on much of the Gold Coast. Noosa has a good surf school and a beginner-friendly beach. But there are no spare lessons, so I just take in the scenery and chilled (in 32 degrees of heat). The drive home is relaxing – Rig, bike and man just heading down the Bruce Highway until finally I’m back in Hawthorne, and saying hello again to Paddy & Vicky.

Job applications, telephone interviews, a mini road trip and good forest singletrack - this is turning into my best week so far. And, to cap it all, the telephone interview must have gone well because I’m invited down to Sydney for a face-to-face interview. Paddy recommends The Lord Nelson Pub (The Rocks, Sydney), I book a room, and I’m sorted. Almost – I don’t have any interview clothes.

10th - 16th September: New Farm

2007-09-16T22:46:00.000-07:00

More hot weather, and I take in more of Brisbane. I spend a lot of time on the City Cats - they 're a great way to get through town and, in weather like this, there's no better way to travel.

I explore some more places – this week, mainly New Farm and Teneriffe. I find a good deli in New Farm, selling large chunky shards of home made fruit & nut chocolate, a good selection of appropriately pungent cheeses, and all kinds of gastronomic exotica. I buy some of the chocolate, and various dips and some fancy crispbreads. They’re all well received by Paddy & Vicky.

I also find a good looking tapas bar, which I reported back to P&V. We go along on Friday, and it’s a nice place. Genuine Spanish food, and genuine Spanish singing & dancing too. There’s a bit of glass in P&V’s paella, so the owner replaces it without question, and gives us some free wine, so that’s ok. Nice people, good service, impressive entertainment, and all in all a good evening. Topped it off with a relaxed stroll back to the New Farm ferry terminal where we got a little ferry across to Norman Park, and had a 10 minute amble home from there.

On Saturday morning, Paddy and I are up early to watch England against South Africa. It's a disheartening spectacle, as England is humiliated by 36-0. That night, I go into Brisbane and meet Mark, Paul and Dawn, in the Pig & Whistle on Eagle Street. It's a big place, with many separate areas, most of which have TV screens. This works out well because Mark (a Middlesborough fan) and Paul (a Liverpool fan) are here for the football. Dawn and I watch a couple of matches from the Rugby World Cup pool stages. We all get to see the matches we came for. Australia beats Wales 32-20, and New Zealand maul Portugal by 108-13. From the matches so far, things don't look very promising for England!

3rd - 9th September: The Rig arrives in Brisbane!

2007-09-10T15:45:00.000-07:00

Paddy and I have been trying to keep calm, but the Rig is due to arrive in Brisbane today - 3rd September. Paddy checks and learns that it's reached Brisbane. It's somewhere nearby and should be delivered today or tomorrow. I get the ferry into the city and walk around - some usual haunts and some new ones. When I return, there it is! The Big Rig has landed!

Paddy explains a few of the controls, and then we're off for a test drive. With no roof and no doors (we took them off), it's a breezy experience, but it feels good. That changes quickly though. When it's my turn to drive, I'm horrified to find that Paddy, who has been so welcoming, is actually trying to kill me!

The steering, which Paddy had said was a little worn, is in fact psychotic. Over the years, as the steering has got worse, Paddy has just got used to it and doesn't think it's too bad. As a new acquaintance with the Rig, I find it a genuinely nerve-wracking experience. A movement of the steering wheel is met with zero response. A larger movement makes no difference. Turning the wheel even further finally results in the front wheels turning recalcitrantly in roughly the direction I want - away from the gutter. Now the Rig is heading towards the centre of the road, and I have to keep it away from oncoming traffic. Progress is a series of zig-zags until I get the car back home. I'm shaken and stirred. We need to get the steering sorted, or I won't survive my first trip.

The Rig is booked into a local garage and, a few days later, the steering is acceptable and various other faults are sorted. There's still work to be done, but it's safe and the remaining deficiencies (fuel gauge doesn't work etc) just add to the experience.

The Rig is very definitely a Man's Car. The steering, although pacified, is still heavy at slow speeds. There's no power assistance and, with extra large wheels and tyres, manoeuvres in tight spaces are like wrestling a bear away from a picnic. Back at the house, parked on the drive, my first experience of trying to turn it round leaves me panting and sweating. I decide I have to learn how to reverse the Rig down Paddy's steep driveway. A few attempts and I've pretty much got that nailed - not always elegantly, but I can do it and it adds to the bonding.

So The Rig is in town, Paddy is happy and I have some more independence. The Rig and I are going to get on well.

On Sunday morning Paddy and I get up around 4am to watch England's opening match in the Rugby World Cup. We beat America, but the performance doesn't inspire confidence. The next match is South Africa, and if we don't improve, we'll be in trouble.

1st September: Riverfire

2007-09-03T22:57:00.000-07:00

Lisa and Mark have invited me, Paddy and Vicky to their South Bank apartment for the Riverfire festival. They have a balcony overlooking the South Bank park, the river, and the Brisbane CBD on the other side. It's a great vantage point from which to see the promised fireworks extravaganza, and the rectum-clenchingly named "dump & burn" - two air force jets dumping burning fuel as they fly by.

We arrive at a decent time and introductions are made. More importantly, beers are opened. We've brought the normal barbecue currency in Australia - a large esky full of ice & booze. Out on the balcony we leave it next to a couple of other similar eskies (next to one of the biggest barbecues I've ever seen, but commonplace by Australian standards) - it's going to be a good night!

I meet Paul and Dawn - Lisa's former neighbours from Nottingham. They've just arrived in Brisbane, having done a bit of travelling around the country. They're settling in Brisbane - Paul starting a new job in a few weeks time. Paul is a gregarious scouser - a staunch Liverpool fan and almost an additional host. (Paul and Dawn are staying temporarily with Mark and Lisa, until they get their accommodation sorted out.) Dawn is quieter initially, but fun-loving in her own right, once she opens up.

I meet Bill who is a manager where Lisa works. Lisa thinks he might want to talk to me about a possible job, which will be both good and bad - it would be good to hear about work, but I prefer to keep social occasions social. But it seems Bill feels the same - we talk a lot during the evening, and none of it is about work. Bill loves his sport, and especially his cricket. I'm out of my depth with cricket, but Paddy knows his stuff. So it's football, cricket, some rugby and some Aussie rules.

Straining obstinately with a belligerant screw-top, I eventually concede defeat and grip the bottle top using my shirt tail, and it finally opens. Then I see the marks of the struggle on my hand - I've scored a graceful cut along my thumb, palm, and finger. I try to regard it as a badge of manliness, rather than stubbornness. It's not bleeding badly, so I ignore it heroically the rest of the night.

The evening is spent mingling, drinking, eating verious food that Lisa has made with her own fair hands. It turns out she's a good cook - something I never knew. Then, the main event - Riverfire itself. The dump and burn is visually impressive but we're just far enough away for it to lose its deafening awe. The fireworks themselves are spectacular, and go on for a long time. They even finish with fireworks that explode into red love-heart shapes. Being a bloke, I have no emotional reaction, but I'm impressed that a firework can be made to explode into a shape like that, and I wonder how it's done.

At the end of the evening, we say our farewells and stroll to the taxi rank. It's a warm night and it's been a good night. I'll pick up the esky tomorrow morning, and bring Lisa some floweres.

29th August: Daisy Hill bike trails

2007-08-30T22:58:00.000-07:00

I’m astonished how undeveloped the mountan biking scene is here. There’s a pretty good local guidebook, describing trails around Brisbane, and along the coast (North and South). But they don’t look very long or very interesting, and I’d like to find something that Paddy & Vicky can try on their bikes.

K-Mart specials, he calls them. They’re perfect for the kind of riding they usually do – urban stuff through the streets and along the cycleways on both sides of the river. But they’re not really designed for rough stuff. I decide to explore some local trails that are described as technically easy and low fitness. So I ride to nearby Morningside train station, get a train into Roma Street and then another train to Kuraby, out to the South East of Brisbane. From Kuraby I have about a 6 mile ride to the trails at Daisy Hill Koala Centre.

Calling in at a bike shop on the way, they suggest a route that would avoid a “nasty” hill. ”That will do me” I think to myself. “Save my legs for the trails”. Maybe it was some wry Aussie humour, but just as I get within a mile of Daisy Hill, suddenly the road goes vertical! In 30 degree heat I do the manly thing and push. Reaching Daisy Hill itself, I'm disappointed. Maybe I’m too used to UK forests, riding real singletrack through real trees. Fire roads have decent surfaces, and singletrack is narrow and twisty and fun. At Daisy Hill, the trails seem like a hybrid of poorly surfaced firetrail and wide uninteresting singletrack. And the hills, although short, certainly can’t be classed low fitness. Maybe there are some great trails there, but I can't find them and the place doesn't inspire me to go back and try again.

On the plus side, I see 3 koalas (clinging lazily to a tree in the entrance lobby), a wallaby (bouncing casually alongside me on the trail), and a one-inch long ant. I’ve no idea what kind of ant it is, and whether I should kill it or protect it. In the end, I play peek-a-boo with it.

He's a funny little fella. I'm reading a (rubbish) trail map that I’ve laid out on a fence, and this ant just walks straight across it, as bold as you like. It startles me a bit initially, being an inch long and flamboyantly coloured. A bit like Elton John. Anyway, when I bend over to inspect him more closely, the little chap stops suddenly and looks up at me! After a few seconds, he moves on, and I move to follow him. He stops and looks at me again. That goes on a few more times until he starts hiding from me. He walks round the other side of the fence post. I look round that side, and he hides again! Ace! I leave him to it eventually - I'm sure we both have things to do. But I like to think we part with a grudging respect for each other, as equals.

24th - 26th August: Getting my bearings

2007-08-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

The next few days are more of the same. I had hoped to find a cheap 2nd hand mountain bike that I could use while I’m here, and give it to Paddy if/when I bring my good bike over from the UK. But the mountain bike scene is so small, I can’t find a decent one 2nd hand. I visit a few shops and eventually find Lifecycle - a friendly place where they seem to know what they're talking about. I haggle a decent deal on a green Stumpjumper, and collect it the following day.

I’m starting to get to know some bits of Brisbane CBD and the suburbs around Hawthorne. And soon I’ll be out on the mountain bike. Yay!

Paddy talks about the Jeep he left behind in Sydney. The Big Rig has been sitting in a friend's garage for seven months, and Paddy says I can use it if we bring it up to Brisbane. I'll have to fork out the money initially but it sounds good to me - I get use of a cool car, I can explore a bit more, take the mountain bike further afield, and help Paddy out at the same time.

Paddy finds a company that can transport it (it's not practical to go down there and drive it 1000 kilometres back) and makes the arrangements. I stick it on my credit card, and the countdown begins. Paddy's excitement is infectious and we're both eager to see the Rig arrive in the Sunshine state.

23rd August - First day Down Under

2007-08-23T21:32:00.000-07:00

I wake early. There’s a road outside and the traffic is intermittent but loud. And I hear Vicky walking around, getting ready for work. The house stands off the ground on pillars (in traditional “Queenslander” style) and has solid timber floors, so footsteps reverberate loudly. But it’s ok. My jetlag-defeating plan includes waking up at normal local time from day 1, so this is a good start. I’m surprised how loud some Australian cars are though, and how fast some people want to drive them up a fairly empty road. I lie there just listening to the sounds of early Hawthorne, and bird calls unlike anything in the UK.

When eventually I get up and open the blind, I’m met with a face full of palm leaves just outside the window, and a grey sky. And rain! A familiar friend, but unexpected here. It turns out they’ve had quite a bit of rain recently, and it’s a Godsend. Drought restrictions are in place and most of the reservoirs are less than 20% full. With Spring starting in one week, and a baking Queensland Summer to look forward to, this doesn’t bode well. No matter – I’m from the North of England, so a bit of Queensland rain isn’t going to bother me. I get dressed, chat to Paddy for a while, he prints me a map of central Brisbane, and I set off to find the ferry and start exploring.

Coming out of Paddy's drive, I turn left and set off down Hawthorne Road. It's a long straight road with houses set back from the pavement on either side. On my right, half way down, is a park with playing fields. Then there's a small local cinema. Every so often a small shop or garage breaks the pattern of houses, but this is definitely quiet, residential suburbia. It's wet too. It's grey and drizzling and the cars splash their way along.

There's no break in the housing but, by the time I reach the roundabout at the bottom, Hawthorne is behind me and I'm in its neighbouring suburb, Bulimba. I turn left into Oxford Street, Bulimba's beating heart with a bustling café culture in the evenings. Not that it’s in evidence this damp morning and, in the gloom, I’m paying only passing attention to my surroundings. I’m focused on reaching the ferry stop. I follow Oxford Street to the far end and finally, twenty rainy minutes after I left the house, I board the ferry.

It’s a big, surprisingly fast catamaran (a City Cat) that powers smoothly up the river. There are several of them. Occasionally they’ll arrive at the ferry stops together (heading in opposite directions – not like the fabled London buses arriving 3 at a time in the same direction). One Cat will tie up, let passengers on & off, while the other bobs patiently mid-river. When the first moves away, the second takes its place, and they continue about their business. At other times, the Cats will pass each other in opposite directions, and various passengers (tourists, not locals like myself) will start cooing as their Cat lunges and dives over the other’s wake. I look out of steamed-up windows and watch as residential suburbia slowly becomes commercial city centre.

Arriving at South Bank (see funky little map), I walk up the ramp and onto a large boulevard along the river’s edge. I see a café and am soon sitting, drinking a “flat white” while observing the gloomy-looking CBD across the river. I check my map, decide where to go, and head out into the warm drizzle. Walking along the boulevard I reach Victoria Bridge (named after Vicky, I believe), and cross the river.

I’ve finally reached the centre of Brisbane, but my main thought is “What the hell is the deal with these lights & crossings?”. The little red man stays on for ages, even when it seems that none of the traffic lights are green. But you daren’t step out to cross, because the traffic lights just go straight from red to green. There’s a slow blipping sound from some invisible speaker, evoking thoughts of the heart monitor that you’ll be plugged into, if you dare to cross at the wrong time and are inevitably run over. Eventually, the red man yields to a green man and the blips get louder and much faster. Strangely (perhaps deliberately?), these blips still mirror your heart rate, as they urge you to charge across the road to the safety of the opposite pavement. It controls pedestrians by uncertainty and confusion, keeping you frustratedly on the pavement even when all the traffic is stationary too. The system sucks and I decide (correctly, it turns out) that it will continue to annoy me.

I spend the day walking around. I explore the covered & pedestrianised Queen Street, and I track down some other uncovered streets that have mountain bike shops. I learn that:

mountain biking is surprisingly small and embryonic around Brisbane
Australia has recently overtaken the US as the country with the highest percentage of obese people. I’m genuinely astonished by this one, but it turns out it’s a big concern and becoming a political issue.

By the end of the day, I’ve walked a long way from the centre, it’s dark, it’s rush hour, and it’s absolutely pissing down. I’m completely soaked. Paddy rings wondering where the hell I am (I’ve been away from the house for 9 hours, just walking around) but I confirm that I’m on the way home. He picks me up dripping wet from the ferry stop at Hawthorne (thanks Paddy), I get back to a warm shower (keeping it short because of the water restrictions), I change into dry clothes and have a lentil-based supper which was delicious. It turns out Paddy & Vicky can cook pretty well.

Watching tv, I realise that the dye has run from my shoes, and my toenails are jet black, as though I got too close to a fat morris dancer. Bedtime on night 2 is much like night 1.

21st August - Departure day

2007-08-22T21:08:00.000-07:00

Finally, the day has come. I’m off to Brisbane, to visit family & friends, and see what the work situation is like. I’ve been to Australia once before, but never to Brisbane. I’m a little apprehensive about the notorious Queensland heat, but I'll just have to tough it out. It’s about 18 months since I last saw my brother Paddy, and his girlfriend Vicky. It will be good to see them again.

I leave London Heathrow wondering what awaits, but I still don’t feel particularly excited. This whole thing has been a long time coming, and I haven’t really felt excited once. It’s not because I don’t want to do it. I do. It’s just that when people ask “Are you getting excited yet?” I’ve always thought for a couple of seconds and had to say “No, not yet”. I’ve kept thinking that passing the next milestone (selling the old house, renting out the new house, buying the tickets, handing in my notice) would finally trigger some excitement, but those milestones have come and gone, and the excitement has yet to arrive. I guess I don’t have the excitement gene.

Anyway, the flight to Singapore is long, and I’ve packed a couple of books that should be easy to dip into. Question & Answer books, distilled from those gems that appear in the back of the New Scientist magazine. Little nuggets of surprisingly down-to-earth questions (“Why do people have eyebrows?” “What is the maximum length of a vertical straw from which I can drink cola?”). I should be able to pick that up and read in short bursts. Also a book called “A short history of tractors in Ukrainian” which has some rave reviews for comic fiction. The quirky title is intriguing, and the reviews urge me to read. But, even as I packed them, I doubted I’d ever open them. I’ve just never acquired the habit of reading. While driving (I drive a lot) I’ll occasionally hear a book review on the radio. Almost without fail, the host and the guests talk about having several books “on the go” at any given time, and the sheer joy of reading. It’s alien to me.

So now, sitting in a Singapore Airlines jumbo jet with my books lying unloved in the overhead compartment, I look through the in-flight entertainment for things to keep the stimulation coming for 12 hours. I manage pretty well, discovering that Blades of Glory is funnier than I thought it would be. Seinfeld is as funny as I knew it would be. The others (whatever they were) must have been pretty much what I expected they’d be.

Changi airport is a nice enough place. With a couple of hours to be whiled away, I mooch about looking at duty-free cameras (I buy one) and smartphones (I don’t buy any). I’m not particularly tired, even though I haven’t slept on the flight. I’m not good at sleeping on journeys and, anyway, I’ve decided to stay awake as much as possible so I can beat the jet lag. I’ll be arriving in Brisbane in the early evening, probably knackered, hopefully having a quick bite to eat, and then getting straight to bed. That’s the plan.

We leave Singapore with quite a few spare seats on the plane. I have an empty seat on my left, and an aisle on my right. This must be what Business Class feels like. In 8 elbow-spreading hours I’ll be in Brisbane. More in-flight entertainment. The breakfast wasn’t as good as the previous flight’s lunch, but that’s no big deal. Nothing much else to report. I arrive at Brisbane airport. I pass uneventfully through immigration, baggage reclaim, customs, and out into Australia. Paddy & Vicky are waiting but don’t even see me as I emerge into arrivals, 15 feet from them. Not a promising start.

I sneak up behind them, and there follows a minute of hugs and welcomes and rebuking Paddy for his inability to recognize his own brother walking by. Then it’s into the car and out into the Brisbane night. I gaze absently out of the window and we chat about the journey and various things. 20 minutes later, we’re back at Paddy & Vicky’s place in Hawthorne. A nice, open plan, welcoming house that I will call home for the next few weeks.

There's more chat, something to eat, and then I’m in bed - settling down for my first night in Brisbane, and maybe on the verge of a new life. I’m not excited yet, but it’s good to be here.