Banks Peninsula

Aboard the Fox II

The unforgiving grass claims many lives

I may have been taking too many pictures

!!

After two weeks ill with a feverish respiratory thing, and many days of rain, we needed a pick up. We drove north to Akaroa, a historic French settlement on the Banks Peninsula. Akaroa is a beautiful harbor vacation town, full of bed and breakfasts, French restaurants, cheeseries, and jewelry shops. The weather cleared on cue and we took a three hour sailing tour of the sound (really an ocean inlet forced through a giant exploded volcano). We saw many New Zealand fur seals, albatrosses, and shags on our way out to the Pacific, culminating in a visit by a pod of Hector's dolphins. They popped up beside the boat in bursts to say hello. We even saw a mama and her calf swimming in tandem.

Soon after, we embarked on the Banks Peninsula Track, New Zealand's first private track. Marketed in the 80s as "four nights, four days, four beaches, four bays," the track passes through Banks Peninsula farmland, which is absurdly pretty. Here are the grassy hills, blue skies, sharp cliffs, strange land formations, and clear waters that you might close your eyes to imagine while trapped in an elevator waiting for the fire department rescue. And aside from two steep climbs, it was a relaxed walk with short days, allowing us time to savor the scenery. Better still was the near total lack of sandflies. When we rested, especially at dusk, their absence became a powerful feature of the walk itself. It is hard to describe just how terrible they were farther south. It was often hard to stop and enjoy a viewpoint.

And we were the only people walking! This meant we were alone not only on the track but in the luxurious farm lodges. At each lodge we had a full kitchen, shop, shower, and real bed waiting for us. Not to mention the extremely fun extras such as a wood fire-heated bath under the stars, giant rope swing, sea kayaking trip to visit a seal colony, bocce, boogie boarding, and so on. Rather than simply a place to recover before the next day's hike, the farm huts became a high point of the trip. I'll remember sitting by the fire reading out-loud from It Must Have Been Something I Ate as clearly as I'll remember the red cliffs and dramatic coastal islands.

Oh! And of course I will remember helping to release an injured blue penguin, the smallest penguin species in the world, back into the wild. Our second farm was also a blue penguin sanctuary, and we were privileged to help feed and release one (but not before it nipped my leg). They are seriously tiny and full of personality. Adorable. The track, a fairly last minute undertaking, was perfect.

In unrelated news (it can't all be good), men wear rattails here. I don't want to make a spectacle of unfashionable people like those wretched blogs, but the tails appear very common. I've seen meaty rattails, dual rattails, and multiple tails spread down the neck like a fan. Was that a tattoo of a rattail I saw? Why is this happening? I thought I left them behind for good in the third grade, along with the taste of boogers. Am I being culturally insensitive? Is it rooted in Maori culture, like a Kiwi Mohawk? Or is it another invasive species, like the stoat, rat, or possum, here to destroy the natural beauty of this country?

Time passed quickly and last night I was surprised to read that The Pale King was released. My heart is speeding up as I write. Eep.