Unusually, we were not woken by the sound of wind/rain/thunder and indeed, today has been pleasant, sunny, breezy and wholly as we’d expected. First, we visited the Glacier again in the sunlight, and much improved it was too, though still lowering, scruffy and impassive. Overnight, the access track had worsened. Yesterday, a kea was tearing the paint off a fencepost with zeal and determination: today, the post had been undercut by flood waters and lay uprooted and useless. Probably not the work of the bird… The water level was well down, almost puny by comparison, so we clambered down to retrieve a chunk of ice to bring back with us. Or maybe not, though it was a nice clean piece weighing about eight kilos so would put my bag over the limit. Otherwise….anyone for glacier mint tea?
Franz Josef is another glacier-focused townlet then there’s only the wild west coast to Greymouth; punctuated by small settlements that rely on passing trade for sustenance. One such is Ross, where the biggest gold nugget in NZ was found, a hefty 2.7kg but things have gone downhill a bit since then and Roddy’s Nugget Bar, though extensive, had a challenging five customers when we stopped for lunch and sat out in the garden!
At Greymouth, we waved goodbye to the west coast waves, crashing and churning as turbulently as ever, taking a by-road up the Grey River gorge because there were roadworks on the right bank. This was a neat move – not only was there no traffic on a perfectly good road, but we stopped to look at Blackball, a once-great mining town where the NZ labour movement was formed. Down-at-heel now, but hanging on, this is real NZ where tourists don’t get. The pub, formerly the Blackball Hilton – yes, really – the mega-chain cut up rough when they realised someone had beaten them to the name – a fine example of the cynical and crippling power of bloated commerce, and quite in keeping with the town’s pedigree. The landlord and friend invited us to join them outside and we spent a happy hour in conversation, being urged to buy a house there by the friend, who turned out to be the steward on the Interislander we are due to catch tomorrow. And his girlfriend is the cook. NZ is a large village really.
The walls of the pub are covered in mining memorabilia, newspaper clippings and scurrilous political (and risqué) jokes. They should be twinned with the Beighton Miners’ Welfare. Being much lower than the alpine villages, but not subject to the sea winds, the agapanthus reappeared, along with hydrangea, day-lilies, osteospermum, and in the pub tubs, pansies, lobelia, lavender and conversely, succulents. The Grey Valley and the road to Reefton are cattle country but the Buller Gorge is a narrow, winding road with many single-track bridges and viewpoints to see the damage done by the 1929 earthquake. You can even walk to the epicentre, since this is a geological fault-line. The dark, craggy valley sides, hung with lowering ferns and cabbage trees made me want to hurry through, but once again, the weather turned on the charm and opened up some glorious vistas down the gorge.
Murchison is the sort of town that has always grown up around a junction and our billet. The Commercial Hotel is a typical offshoot. The rooms are pure Victoria wayfarers – ideal for the travelling gentleman. Shared facilities but good value. As I sit in the sun, Adrian is off on a recce for dinner. How pleasant!
P.S. And when we got back to the Commercial Hotel, all was locked – we feared having to stay in the grotty little huts at the back with peeling paint and beaten-up old nails parked outside. Happily, however, our key opened the residents’ entrance, and we surprised the staff by apparating in front of the beer pumps as they were settling down to watch Rugby League on Maori Channel. So we learned why – it’s culturally offensive to sit or stand on tables, the rules of yet another version of the game played with an oddly-shaped ball, and something of the attitudes of local youth.