Bluegrass Beemers

I was surprised when we left Saturday morning and made our way through Blenheim to see our only McDonalds on this trip. The absence of the golden arches everywhere else probably helps to explain the availability of such fine little restaurants in small towns. We didn’t stop.

The road from Blenheim makes a turn south and is in the hills away from the coast for awhile. These are brown hills, higher than what we call mountains in Eastern Kentucky but still only “hills” compared to the real mountains farther south. The weather, as is all too often the case with us, had turned bad. We went in and out of showers and the ever present strong wind off of the Pacific. At about Wahranui the road came out of the hills and began following closely along the coast line. I was astounded to see mile after mile after mile of undeveloped Pacific Ocean coast line bordered only by this road and a railroad track. There were no condos, no high rise hotels, no theme parks and no billboards. Nothing but seemingly endless black sand and rock beaches with the Pacific Ocean lapping up on to the rocks. Once in a great while there would be a farm house, a modest board structure whose back window would open out onto what in California would be a multimillion dollar view. Here that view is enjoyed by a farm family and a variety of livestock presumably at a far lower cost.

After many miles of such vista, we came to “The Store” a log and wood structure with a café over looking the beach. We stopped for lunch and, in what sounds now like a broken record, found a wonderful variety of excellent dishes well prepared and served by eager staff. The place was crowded by New Zealand standards in that there were at least five or six other people besides us. We took a table out on the balcony over looking the ocean and when I got up to go over and talk with some other people, a seagull tried to make off with my food.

Later I walked down the wooden steps to the beach, crossed the broad expanse of the grass covered plain to get to the rocky shore where I walked out and stuck my fingers in the Pacific. I was the only one on the beach.

(Brenda looking down the steps at "The Store" leading down to the beach)

(The Store, as seen from the water's edge. See all the crowds on the beach?)

Our destination this particular day was Kiakoura where whales are to be seen most of the year. As noted in an earlier post, we had decided to take the helicopter flight in search of the leviathan. We stopped in Kiakoura just after lunch but the weather had closed in to the point that neither the helicopters nor the whale-watching boats were going out. We made arrangements to take a flight the next morning then went to find lodging for the evening. We ended up at a sea side motel in rather Spartan conditions but comfortable enough. We walked the mile and a half back into town to explore a bit. Kiakoura like many of these adventure destinations was full of young people with back packs. We got some pastry and coffee and sat at a sidewalk table for a while people watching. I decided that the variety of pastries available at this particular bakery was such that I would be forced to have another just in the interest of research. I doubt seriously if I would have any clothes that fit when I get back to the States.
 
That night we walked back to our hotel dropped our various items we had picked up in town and walked back to a nearby restaurant which had been in place since 1873. A photograph on the wall, taken back in the late 1800’s showed it looking much like it does now.  There we had excellent meals, fish for me and salad for Brenda along with a bottle of wine from a nearby winery. We had  only to walk a couple of blocks back to our hotel. This restaurant is across the street from the Pacific Ocean beach, with a view unimpeded by any development. Our table overlooked the sidewalk straight out to the beach.  The meal was of a quality to be expected in a “black tie” restaurant in the states. Yet with the dollar to dollar exchange rate, we spent something closer the range of say Ramsey’s, maybe Cheddars, but with the wine thrown in for free. I really like New Zealand..   
 
The next morning, Sunday, the weather wasn’t looking a whole lot better but had cleared off a bit. We made our way to the helicopter pad at 9:00 where we were informed that the whales were not in a predictable pattern these days. They had been acting “strangely” moving in different patterns than the whale watching group had seen in the years they have been tracking them. I wondered if the earthquake a few days earlier had upset the big animals’ vibration sensing organs causing them to move about in unexpected ways. The pilot told us that we could abort our trip if we wanted since they could not guarantee us a sighting. We decided to go for it anyway since it was unlikely we would be back here anytime soon and there is an absolutely zero chance of seeing a whale if you don’t go.

(Brenda on her second helicopter ride this trip, scanning the seas for Moby Dick)

Brenda and I had this particular helicopter to ourselves with the pilot “Scottie” a slender intense young man who did seem to have done this before. We lifted off and quickly were over the peninsula which forms Kiakoura then out into the bay and over open water. We were looking for, at 1200 feet above the surface, something roughly the size of our thumbs lying on the surface surrounded by a bit of white water and perhaps a spouting of spray when the animal breathed. Apparently they spend about 7 minutes or so on the surface breathing and absorbing oxygen so that they can go down for dives ranging from 50 minutes to more than 2 hours.

A whale, a sperm whale such as what we were looking for, is about the size of a city bus but perhaps a bit longer. In the enormity of the ocean, this is literally like looking for a needle in a haystack. We flew around for 40 minutes but never spotted a single whale. We did see a pod of about 3 or 400 dusky dolphins and another smaller pod of hector’s dolphins, the latter being apparently a very rare species to see. We had often seen dolphins from the shore and on a few occasions in Florida waters had seen them jumping out of the water not far from where we were swimming. However viewed from above (the pilot brought the helicopter down within about 500 ft of the surface) one can see how they form small groups within the pod to go after their fish meals. We also saw an albatross, a beautiful majestic bird which certainly doesn’t deserve the reputation Samuel Taylor Coleridge foisted upon them.

(What did we see? We saw the Sea !)

We landed back at the helicopter center and departed, only slightly disappointed because we hadn’t seen a whale. Just another case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.
 
We left Kiakoura and headed south toward Oamaru. Route 1 veers quickly away from the coast as it leaves Kiakoura and winds its way through the coastal mountains. It’s somewhat odd to be on such a curvy mountain road and realize that the Pacific Ocean is less than 2 miles, away just over that range of mountains to your left. This road snakes in out of mountain passes in such a way The Dragon up in North Carolina would snuff its flames and hang its head in defeat.

Eventually though all good things must come to an end, even in New Zealand, and the road finally smooths out onto the coastal plain approaching Christchurch. The stretch of Route one that goes across the Canterbury Plain, including the city of Christchurch (from about Amberly to Ealing) is approximately 75 miles of straight flat road with at least part of a big city thrown in for a bit of confusion.  We did find on that stretch, however, a decent motorcycle shop (I needed to stop to get a new tire gauge) where I met a young man, in perhaps his late 30’s, who further strengthened my good  opinion of NZ riders. He said he had started out as a younger man on larger sport bikes, 1000cc models, and as he got more experience had backed down to smaller ones for the challenge and feedback on the road.  His current favorite is an older (to him, that is, still modern to me!) NSR 250 Honda racer replica.  On their weekend backroad blitzes, he is usually in the front of the pack on these tight curvy roads (and as he says, “If I’m not, I just tell them, Hey, it’s only a 250 !”) I was pleased to see that the “It’s more fun to ride a slow bike fast than a fast bike slow” mentality has taken root here in the southern hemisphere.  He also showed us a mid-70’s Yamaha TY-80, the miniature trials bike, that the owner of the shop had restored.  My son had one of these in the early 80’s and I’d like to find a good example for my grandkids….but I think shipping this restored model over to the states might be just a bit more pricey than I want for something that will end up being bashed on rocks!

(This little Yamaha needs a home!)

As we got closer to Christchurch, it was raining fairly hard and the wind had never let up. We were passed in traffic by about a dozen large Suzuki cruisers obviously on either an organized tour or some sort of club run. As they came around us that it was clear that the stragglers in the group were terrified of being left behind and so they were willing to do anything to get around us and the other traffic to catch up to their companions further ahead. The mixture of large bikes being handled by what seemed to be relative novices in the rain and high cross winds convinced me that I should find a place to stay quickly. We ended up in Woodend at a very pleasant motel operated by a young couple who offered to let us put the bike in their garage. When the husband opened the door I discovered that my Suzuki rental bike would be sharing space with his Suzuki race bike, which sported essentially the same engine, and his Honda Race Bike. He told me that he had just sold a Motoguzzi that he just restored. See I told you this was motorcycle heaven.
 
The next morning we saddled up and soldiered on through Christchurch and down the wide flat plain toward Oamaru where the penguin colonies are found.

Random thoughts.  It is wonderfully easy to travel here, much more so than anywhere we’ve found in the States in the last twenty five years.  Our country seems to have moved on to a model where all “travel” is inexorably directed to the Interstates and both lodging and food have congregated there in the form of identical fast food and motel chains.  One could be anywhere on an interstate and not see a real difference.  Motels have in that environment, for the most part, evolved to become like hotels, with entry through a lobby and a long trek down a hall to a cubicle-like room that looks just like all the others, everywhere else. I’ve been doing this motorcycle traveling thing for quite a few decades now and I’ve seen the decline of small towns and local restaurants and motels along the backroads, to the point now that in some areas, none exist.

Here in NZ, like other countries we’ve been to, the notion of “travel” is something different, more like it once was in the US, with every small town having a selection of food and lodging opportunities made easily available for the person who wants to come in, drop their stuff in a clean, convenient place to sleep, with all the necessities within walking distance once the bike is parked.  It’s a very civilized, adult way to do things. 

In most places we’ve stayed, here and in other countries, the proprietor doesn’t ask for payment up front or sometimes even our names.  It’s all expected to be handled in the morning, like grownups, with everyone assuming responsibility.  We’ve never had to be concerned with finding lodging or food, so we never have to pre-book anything, allowing us to change plans at a moment’s notice.  It’s the way things ought to be. Not sure how or why we moved away from it in the States, but I wish we could get it back. 

(stuffing one's face again at a sidewalk cafe)

For now, traveling here  in NZ is very much like England or the Continent, but with better roads & scenery and without 90% of the traffic.  What’s not to like?
 
For motorcyclists here in NZ, the farthest you could be from fantastic (and I don’t mean just “good”) riding areas is about two hours at most, if you were mired in the deepest part of a big city like Christchurch.   For the majority of riders here, the time would be far less than  half that and for quite a few it’s just outside their driveway.  They are, as they say here, “spoiled for choice” From Christchurch, a quick ride northwest would put the rider in the middle of Arthur’s Pass and the gateway to the other mountain loops up there. To come close to that kind of scene, I’d have to ride three days from Kentucky to the Rockies.

(Crown Range road, coming down from Wanaka)

If I were a young man, which I most assuredly am not, I’d be looking to NZ as an opportunity.  Property here is a bargain, given the US Dollar to NZ Dollar exchange rate at present and development is still in its early stages.  People here have told us that the rest of the world is just discovering NZ, in no small part due to the popularity of the “Lord of the Rings” movies.  Brits have been coming here forever, often to visit relatives who have emigrated or just for a cheap holiday in a culture very similar to their own. It seems to me that a young person with time to amortize could buy a house here at the current exchange rate, rent it a good part of the year and have it available for one’s own use on vacation (keeping a bike in the garage here, of course). Yes, I know that’s encouraging the very kind of development that may spoil this place, but that development is probably coming anyway.  Nothing this good can last forever in this form.

(even the trees are laid back in New Zealand)

On Friday, March 20th here in New Zealand, (still Thursday the 19th back home) we started out after breakfast on bicycles borrowed from our hosts here at the B&B. They also supplied us with a map of the surrounding area which noted all of the wineries which had “cellar doors”, meaning an open area where wine is sold retail and tasting can be had.

(Brenda at a typical "cellar door")

The Marlborough region, where we’re located, is the main wine producing area of NZ and there are wineries of various sizes, from a few acres operated by a couple and their children to huge operations with tractor trailers (“articulated lorries”) backed up to loading docks and rows of vines as far as the eye could see. We made our way to as many of these cellar doors as we could. By the time we had hit the first five or so I was very glad the motorcycle was safely locked away in the garage back at the B&B. Most of the cellar doors are like showrooms, quite nicely appointed, with knowledgeable staff (though with our limited information on good wine, they might as well have been less qualified) and interesting varieties of wines mostly not sold in the US.  Apparently these small operations don’t find the US market large enough (due, I suppose to the crowd of others both domestic and foreign) to make it worth the transport costs and getting through our somewhat over-complicated laws on importing alcohol.  The grapes here seem smaller than what I’ve seen in similar places in the US and each winery has it’s own variations as well.  It was most pleasant bicycling through the vineyard area here in New Zealand broad expanses of neat rows of vines bordered on all sides by high mountains. The vines are in most cases covered with netting which is obviously frustrating to the birds which flock around trying to find an open spot to grab the  tasty fruit..

(Brenda at the smallest cellar we visited. This woman and her husband started this winery as a labor of love and are doing all parts of the process, from growing to pressing to bottling and distribution, themselves.)

We ate lunch at the Wairiu winery where we sat at table outside under shelter, surrounded by vines and consumed excellent salads with, of course, still more wine. At the next table sit a couple who kept looking at us and we kept looking at them both of us sure we had seen the other before. The man of the couple looked remarkably like John Cleese from Monty Python in his later years. Finally the woman asked if we hadn’t been on the  Taleri Gorge train ride back in Dunedin few weeks ago and we then realized that we shared a car with them. They had been traveling this whole time as well, after visiting their daughter who had moved from Britain to New Zealand. They had just come from Kaikorua where they had done a whale watching adventure. This was something that we had planned and they advised us not to take the boat, as we had intended, since the wife of this couple, like Brenda, has some difficulty with sea sickness. They had done a 30 minute helicopter ride instead of the 3 hour boat tour and said they found it much superior. Prior to our experience at Fox Glacier, I might not have believed that but I am now firmly convinced.  It had never been in my paradigm of the world to just hire a helicopter to go see something, but here in NZ they are as common as taxicabs in the sightseeing areas.  While a bit expensive, the price in US dollars (thanks to the exchange rate at the moment) isn’t exorbitant at all and, given the time a boat takes to get to the area for viewing, the price for time spent there is about the same..  The Fox Glacier experience worked out to be about $10 per minute for the two of us for a 30 minute view that was well worth it and impossible to duplicate in any other way (except climbing up the mountain, which wasn’t really an option for us.)  At our age, these experiences have a definite “sell by” date and this was not to be missed.
 
We continued on our two-wheeled (human powered variety) tour of the wine country, stopping again an hour or so after lunch for a pastry break at Michel something-or-other (hey, we’d been to a lot of cellar doors by then !) where I had an interesting type of apple custard tart and a “long black” out on the sunny patio.  I could get used to this.

(John, doing what he does best, waiting for pastry to arrive, at Michel Something-or-Other winery)

Late in the day we finally wended our way back to our lodgings so that we could walk back to a pub for dinner.  We selected the Old English Pub, which turned out to be the only place I’d seen Guinness on draft here in NZ.  Feeling something like a traitor for abandoning my quest for local brews, I couldn’t resist the creamy black concoction that in my view, forms the standard for “good beer”.
 
Back on the motorcycle tomorrow.