My turn to drive, and a treat it was too, in bright sunny, cloud-wispy, traffic-free, scenic mega route to Picton, through 600m passes, deer and cattle farms and lots of uninhabited beauty. It occurs to me to record that every creek, burn stream, culvert washout (local term for a geological phenomenon) and river have a name sign as you cross the bridge and each bridge has a number (well it’s several thousand). Signage is good (not too taxing when there are so few roads) and roads are well-maintained, though that too is easy with so little traffic on B-class-type routes and width, despite the tendency to landslip.
Another notable feature is that rest areas, viewpoints, walks, historic sites and buildings are all carefully marked and tended. This too, of course, is not so difficult with only a couple of hundred years to deal with, but nonetheless welcome. Even more creditworthy is the attention to lavatories, conveniently located at frequent intervals, clean and fully supplied – this is a commendable feat of civilisation. The unisex nature of said facilities is not in itself a difficulty, but the inability of the previous user to aim correctly often is, or the lack of notice taken of the modern water flushing device, which rarely malfunctions in NZ. The same trolls turned up to breakfast this morning wearing scraggy hair, mucky T-shirts, towels and dirty feet. Please. Spare us the crude demonstration of your alternative self-image until at least coffee time. They were also rather spotty, but despite the tattoos were mercifully free of gratuitous body-piercings.
As we sit on the Interislander, cruising up Queen Charlotte Sound on this sunny (but windy) day, I have the leisure to recall an incident yesterday, illustrative of the resilient, independent frontier spirit that infuses this country. The woman who is the girlfriend of the bloke who is the friend of the barman at the Blackball Hilton (keeping up?) who is the second staff cook on this ferry (which was, incidentally, a cross-channel ferry ‘The Pride of Cherbourg’ before they painted over the casting) told us a tale. She is volunteer attendant at the Blackball Pool, along with a lifeguard, and was considering closing up at 2.30 because only Shaun was in the water. Seconds later, said 5-year-old went down the slide, fell off and broke his collarbone. Mum and the volunteer ambulance were called, and two arrived – (surprisingly, since she is also a volunteer ‘ambo’ i.e. ambulance driver and paramedic) – er – ambos, that is not two mums, just the one, holding him quite still against her ample form, as one would. Though reportedly “very brave”. Shaun had been despatched to the pool, at five years old, on his own, and there was no hint or expectation of blame, litigation, culpability or come-uppance. It was an accident. Children are not at risk from other known adults in the community. Reasonable steps are taken to ensure their welfare. No-one was at fault. It’s a learning point for Shaun, who will mend. End of story? Not in UK. Point to ponder.
As we waited on the car deck, Gail rang to say they were parking and would meet us off the ferry. She began to think she’d missed us though because we were the penultimate vehicle to disembark. We found Ewen in some discomfort, due to serious burning of his feet whilst building sandcastles in Gisborne whilst on holiday. They looked really bad, and he’d converted his leave into sickness as he’s been signed off by his doctor. Stoically, he gave us the $20 tour of Wellington before heading home for a wee dram. Several drams and a meal at the Plimmerton Taj spiced with lively conversation persuaded us to stay another day in the capital.