The Blenheim to Christchurch road runs down 300km of wild coastline, watching seals at Half Moon Bay and landing at an Irish pub at Kaikoura where I read all about the old local whaling industry, an arduous and dangerous business in the ‘blue-bottomed boats’, one of which is in Christchurch Museum. The challenge of catching a right whale of 12 metres, and bringing it to shore was barely worth the return, especially for the crew who received paltry shares compared with the boat owners. Needless to say, the communities withered, and if life was tough for the men, it was commensurately hard for the women, scraping a living and making everything from nothing.
At Auckland, we had presciently bought a SIM card so I was able to book accommodation, which was just as well, since Christchurch is busy, but after five attempts, I got a ‘Superior’ room in a boutique hotel just off the central square – with secure parking, at a premium, it appears. For starters, we did the Lonely Planet walking tour and the circular train route with professionally jolly driver commentary on all the buildings and events of interest, but the place was deserted because of the Bank Holiday, except in the bars. Dux de Lux is a microbrewery where we had a sampling tray and a humungous pizza. In this o-so-green country, the ubiquitous gas patio-heater is an anomaly, but the inside rooms are deserted for the yards in almost all places, and it’s not because they’re smokers.
Christchurch is the most English of all NZ’s towns, with the River Avon, punting, statue of Queen Victoria, Oxford & Cambridge Terraces flanking the river and the streets named after shires and cities in UK. It is pleasant, clean and easy to manage.