Through the simple ploy of proffered tea, Jen was tempted out about 7 am to check out the rising sun, the estuary and the Pacific Ocean, gently dumping on to the incredibly fine pale sand. Lots of geese v-ing their way somewhere important, a few ducks on the other side of the estuary paddling about, and doubtless loads of extremely rare wildfowl hiding in the bushes somewhere, but the feeling was marvellous, immense, opening. We walked round to the beach, the sticky estuary mud replaced by the dune sand and grassy tufts, with evidence of many types of bird feet abounding, and a mysterious single track, a wiggly continuous line flanked by serrations about 3mm apart - a lizard of some sort I'd guess. In the distance, some dogs and their people bounced around, doing dog things. The quad bike and moto-x bike tracks looked very faded, with sand blown across them to soften their inorganic edges.
The morning was spent doing housekeeping really, lots of useful things like drying the washing in the increasingly hot sun, cleaning stuff, and even soaking my foot in some warm salty water! This all took time… but only nearly as much as finding the dump station. Ready to leave, Jen's new checklist tested for the first time (saves driving away with the step down, or the roof open, or the - well, you know, anything really), we cruised the site for the familiar sign or some kind of evidence of an appropriate spot. We were blundering up the last of the camp roads we hadn't checked out, having looked in at the office (not open until 11.30!) with no luck, when Debbie turned out to be driving the 1985 Audi 100 Avant in front of us, and asked if we were searching for it. Handy eh? It turned out to be in the middle of the main road into the camp - apparently the council can't afford to give her a better place plumbed in, and it's very not handy in high season with people coming and going. Long chat ensued while we did the business as it were - the car was only $800 from this Swedish couple who return every 3 years for a 3 month stay, buying a cheap car in Auckland through a dealer friend, and Deb bought the previous one with such good results (bought for $1000, got it totalled, insurance gave her $2000!) that she thought she'd try it again. Now there's a plan…
We stooge southwards - no, we don't, in fact following Deb's instructions we head west almost immediately from the main road, through the country and avoiding Rangiora (some kind of sugary soft drink presumably), heading for Ashley Gorge and Mount Hutt. This is the scenic route apparently, and rightly so. The roads are still bullet-straight, apart from winds to clear hills or raise elevation, and Ashley Gorge appears, grey boulders mixed with pebbles in the low occupancy summer river bed. Lunch is half a left-over beef sausage, water, some bread, cheese and tomato, with legs up on the picnic bench to avoid the cretinously insistent sandflies. The toilets probably rate an 8, just because of the effort required to maintain that standard so far away from anything! Does the man who pulls in in what looks like a small-scale garbage truck look after them, or is he only responsible for the health and safety aspects of the childrens' playground gear? That's all he seem to check before we leave.
Oxford is where we stop to get some food and other items - wine, crisps!! I don't want to live here, the wind is oppressively hot, and apparently the entire town near burnt to the ground in the face of the insistent NW wind and a forest fire or similar, way back in the distant past. Plus, I can do an Oxford any time I like, and having a Woodstock Road here too is really no big deal, especially as it leads to Woodstock. More food than usual, in case we can't get any for a bit - the fridge is running well now we keep it going constantly as part of the checklist.
Rakaia Gorge is deep and impressive, deeply impressive, the water a crazy bright light blue against the sun, sky and grey rocks. We park beside the 1800's bridge, proud evidence apparently of NZers' ability to take engineering solutions and adapt them for local conditions. A brace of ancient (60's oriented F and G registered) British bikes rattles over while we watch the strong current and feel the hot NW wind. The riders stop and de-helmet, amazingly it's a Brit and his wife - Triumph Thunderbird and BSA something else - and we pass some comments on the heat and riding in it. Somehow, I'm not interested in the details of what must be a fascinating trip, and these are not offered, we have yet to decide how and where we're going to spend the afternoon and night, and there's some tension, probably mostly from me.
Further down the road, the Pudding Hill Lodge campsite is up a dirt road, right beside the local skydiving and other adrenaline sport facility. Not sure how much there will be to do here, but the log cabin style reception feels good. The manager, Mark Chapman - I guess he's too old for his parents to have avoided the name - and his assistant, Top Dog, appear when we press the signal button on the industrial cordless phone base unit - it's the hottest day of the summer so far apparently, 33 degrees. It hasn't been this hot since last summer, and it certainly feels it. We get to pick a spot again, and opt for shade and trees - the sun is really really hot and very direct-feeling. There are no views really from here, we sit reading, drinking beer, chilling. I'm saving myself for Lake Clearwater…
Just finished reading American Wife, about a Laura Bush-alike whose husband bears an uncanny resemblance to George Dubya. It's really good, a long involved story that feels intimate and honest, and which puts things in a different, more understanding way than "god-sent hero" vs. "super-cretin". It's made me look at events and people in my life again, although I'm not sure what the results of that thought are - yet. It turns out that when Jen and I shopped for books separately at LHR, we both bought the damn book - clearly an attractive subject and cover. So we can save some luggage mass to compensate for the 100kg of crap we'll returning with extra… Which means that I'm thinking about the trip home occasionally already. Boo. Stop that, John!
The skydiving club is in full swing, given it's a cloudless, virtually windless day at this stage. They're using a low-wing monoplane, which is a bit unusual I think, but there's like a metre-long footrest on the port side I can see from the other side when it lands - maybe there's a door there and they sit on the edge and roll out. Four or five skydivers go at a time, the plane stooges around the mountains for a bit, then they bale out NE of here, coming down maybe a kilometre away. The Toyota van busies down the gravelled driveway, through the corridor of what look like fruit trees to get them, then comes zooming back. Loud music plays from the base, the sort of thing you'd associate with adrenaline sports. I try to get some pictures which capture something of the activity, but it's quite hard - the plane landing is quite good, got a slightly panned effect on it that without being too blurry, but the descending skydivers are impossible without my longer lens.
The wind comes up as the day goes out, I wind up the awning which is getting pretty flappy. Supper is lamb chops with rice and sweet corn, cooked in the camp kitchen for a change and gas-saving effect. The wind gets up some more, we lie out on the picnic mat and look at the stars, drinking red wine. It's still warm, even if you have to lie flat to avoid being blown over! We debate the location and appearance of the Southern Cross - have to look it up next time I'm online. A subdued bedtime and a wind-rattled sleep follows.
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