I love it in New Zealand. This place has everything; the people are delightful, there are mountains and lakes absolutely everywhere and the general attitude is positive, pro-active and inspiring.
What it doesn’t have, however, is very much good music…and hardly any festivals.
Specifically, it is lacking the best festival of them all:
For that reason – any really not many more – I am going home. Back to the UK!
Bye!
Today, I climbed Mount Doom. For those too boring to be familiar with Lord of the Rings, please see below:
The ascent of the mountain, which is actually a volcano called Mount Ngauruhoe, starts a couple of hours into the Tongariro Crossing. Alas, I was told by my shuttle bus driver that I wouldn’t have enough time to do the entire crossing and also reach the summit of the Ngauruhoe, or even the summit of the smaller Mount Tongariro.
Of course, he said this because he hadn’t realised I was a Guildsman. If there wasn’t enough time, I would simply punch Chronos in the face until he gave me some more.
In fact, I would climb BOTH mountains and make the crossing. That would show…somebody…something. Continue reading
I have just spent a week in Orc Land.
[Titter.]
See what I did there? Because it’s New Zealand…and the Lord of the Rings…and…and…
Ah, screw you guys. My brilliance is wasted on you.
Only kidding – it’s hurtful jokes day, after all! What’s that? It isn’t? But, they told me… Oh. Oh I see.
Here are some pictures from my awesome week in Auckland, including: FIRE, RUM, ICE CREAM, MUSEUMS, BOURBON, BIG HOUSE, CAKES, RUM, SUNSETS, RUM…and so on. Continue reading
Last week, I successfully failed to climb Mount Taranaki. If that doesn’t seem like a ‘success’ to you, you’re simply not reading hard enough. Read harder. HARDER!!
You’ll get there.
In short, Taranaki was covered in ice and the local adventurers wouldn’t rent me any ice-climbing gear because they said I would get myself killed.
I, however, am not easily killed. To date, for example, I cannot think of a single time I have died. I tried explaining this to the grizzled mountain veterans, but all my ranting and raving got me nowhere.
I sat with this tiny bird and stared at the mountain, angrily. I didn’t help.
Apparently this expression doesn’t work in New Zealand. So I left – not without questioning their COMMITMENT TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE – and headed to Auckland to regroup.
Now, Auckland many not seem like the epicentre of adventure, but it is home to some fantastic people. These include Fanny and Susan, two delightful German girls I met in a bookshop in Wellington, and Ryan, an extraordinary man I met at Ferg Burger in Queenstown.
Whilst Fanny and Susan gave me a roof over my head and epic dinner times in the 21-person Big House community, Ryan set about planning an Auckland adventure to make up for Mount Taranaki.
In the end, we settled on heading out to Rangitoto Island; a absolutely kickass island off the coast of Auckland, where examples of Māori culture, hot springs and boiling mud pools abound! Continue reading
I have a problem. Actually, I have a few.
I have been sitting in New Plymouth (not the most rocking town in the world) since Tuesday afternoon, waiting to climb conquer the local piece of badassery – Mount Taranaki, 2600m high and the most lethal mountain in New Zealand.
My problem is that New Zealand is in the middle of a cold snap. The temperature dropped by about 8 degrees over night on Monday, covering the entire of Egmont National Park in so much snow that the shuttle buses into it haven’t even been running for the last few days.
With no other realistic way of getting there in time to climb the mountain, I have been stuck in town waiting for the damn thing to thaw out a bit. So far, it has done so just enough for me to book myself onto a shuttle bus for tomorrow morning!
My second problem, however, is that I need some gear. One does not ascend a mountain like Taranaki – or indeed any decent mountain – without at least some crampons and an ice axe. Without them (indeed, even with them), you’ll simply slide back down again, quite probably to your death.
Being entirely out of money, I cannot afford to buy this gear. Instead, I am attempting to hire it from the local adventuring shop. The problem is, however, that they won’t give it to me. Continue reading
Today, it is way too cold to climb Mount Taranaki. Tomorrow the weather will be better. So I wait…
…and eat cake…and drink tea…and stare at Mount Taranaki.
I’m getting inside its head. Psyching it out for the big day.
I’m playing mind games with a mountain.
This is mental warfare.
By the time the mountain disappears into the evening gloom, I am ready for war.
So I find the local fight club…and I fight.
Wellington. I turned up here on a whim to see Tenacious D and, a week later, I cannot leave.
Every day, I wake up in time to check out of my hostel, intent on leaving the city…
Every night, I check back into my hostel and vow to leave on the morrow.
It is no use. I am smitten. Continue reading
Today was meant to be my first day in Nelson and, to be fair, it was. It was, however, also my last day in Nelson. I have already left… But let me start at the beginning of this silly tale.
After failing to climb the Franz Josef glacier due to financial restraints (I am bankrupt), I caught a lift with a wonderful Californian wine maker called Tom, all the way to Greymouth. Here we spent the night playing the piano, eating pizza and sitting by the fire. It was delightful!
The next day, Tom dropped me in Barrytown – possibly the smallest town on the entire West Coast. There, I forged the Emperor’s Blade and spent the night alone in the All Nations hostel, drinking tea, coffee and vodka. The tea and coffee were complements of the hostel. The vodka was complements of Sarah, with whom I walked the Keplar Track.
Early the next morning, I walked the beach looking for precious stones. I found none, but it took my mind off the fact I hadn’t eaten in 40 hours or so. There are very few cash machines on the West Coast. Very, very few. There are also no shops or eateries in Barrytown… Continue reading
24 years ago this very day, the Great Smith in the Sky forged my own Brother in Thunder, Emperor Matthias Bunn of Murderbeers.
With him, I have feasted, reveled and lifted for time immemorial.
Together with my Brother in Blood, William Billiam, we carved our path through the cities of Europe and danced through Thailand, to the song of Mr. Whiskey. Alongside my Brother in Iron, Simon Bunnslayer we drank and sang our way through to the mountains of Poland and discovered what it was to be as beast.
It was he who first uttered the name Murorga Sim Bowa which, for over a decade, has been the name under which I have performed all my wrestling shows.
It was he who permanently disfigured both my brother’s right hand (by slicing it open in a duel) and my own left hand (by breaking two of my fingers in a wrestling match).
It was he who named me Champion of Murderbeers, the title that has justified my drunken debauchery for the last two years.
It was he who led the way in my pilgrimage to see the Man Punching a Hydra and helped me drown my sorrows when we realised he was caged away.
The greatest gigs I have witnessed, he witnessed also. He even offered me his own bed whilst I trained in the noble art of lifting; a sacrifice I only realised the next day, after sleeping on the floor.
Over 24 years, he has seen me at my mightiest and lowliest both. And we have sung. Oh how we have sung.
It was in his honour, therefore, that I stepped up to the anvil today…and forged my first blade.
The time has come to leave Wanaka. There is much to do here, but I am exhausted and cannot do it justice. Instead, I pack my bags and walk a few kilometres to the main road. Here, after much waiting around, I manage to hitch a lift 300km from Wanaka to Franz Josef, via Lake Hawea.
I am too tired to remember my ride’s name, which is rare for me, but he is a lovely man and we talk of professional wrestling and his aspirations as both a golfer and manager of a dairy farm. Partway to the glacier, he stops to fish for salmon. Naturally.
By the time we reach the town of Franz Josef, I have just enough time to discover that my Ice Climbing tour will not be running this weekend (not enough people have been foolish enough to pay for something so expensive) and check into the YHA, where I meet Lucas – a great German man, who hitched the same route as me today. Continue reading
I don’t know if this is a real thing…but I think I might be exhausted.
It feels a bit like my body is shutting down; my legs aren’t working properly, every part of my lower back aches for reasons I don’t understand and the space between the roof of my mouth and my eyeballs feels like it is full of week-old rum and coke.
Any time I sit down, I fall asleep. Any time I get into bed, I lie awake and sleep for maybe 5 hours a night.
I do not feel entirely capable of withstanding even small bursts of activity. Life has become a clumsy, sticky-fingered God daughter and I, I am Jenga.
Hear me roar?
So anyway, today I attempted to climb Roy’s Peak; a modest 6-hour trek up to an elevation of 1578 metres. Upon reflection, this is 250 metres higher than Ben Nevis…but I don’t know its prominence, so that is largely irrelevant.
What is relevant is that I couldn’t do it. Or rather, I could have done it…but I didn’t. I just didn’t want to. I was bored; bored of spending my time in New Zealand walking around – normally on my own – for days and days for fucking scenic panoramic views. Continue reading
Nothing much happened today, friends. I got up, hitched a ride from Frankton to somewhere around Cromwell, and then another one from around Cromwell to Wanaka.
My first ride was in a bus, would you believe it? It was being driven by a fantastic old guy, who was driving three girls from the Kiwi Experience bus somewhere. He just let me jump aboard and spent most the ride telling me all the best things to do in the area. Amazing.
My second ride was with a lady who overheard my conversation about hitch hiking when I was buying coffee. When she saw me 30 minutes later by the side of the road, she just pulled on over, took me to the town and even drove me around to help me find a hostel.
Wanaka is truly beautiful, even by the standards New Zealand has thus far been setting.
There, I scaled Mount Iron and performed minor gymnastic feats, before running back to town.
I spent the evening walking around Wanaka, looking for something – anything – to do. I even walked out of town to the local gym, where the price of $20 per session made me feel a bit sick.
Then I returned to town and searched every shop for a sandwich-ice-cream. Eventually, I located one in a petrol station.
Then I went to my freezing cold bed in the YHA hostel.
That was about it!
Today, my hangover told me it was the 19th of May – the birthday of Emperor Matt Bunn.
(It is not the 19th of May. It is the 15th of May. I now realise this.)
To honour him, I took inspiration from a large group of tourists in town, who were taking it in turns to climb upon a decorative rock and stand on one leg for a photo.
So I scaled Mount Iron…and stood on one arm.
Thus, the Guild. Thus, the Hammer. Thus, Murderbeers.
Once I am out of Mossburn, I stop to catch my breath and readjust my backpack, which already weighs a ton.
My knees throb and the lunacy of attempting to run 22km in this condition has dawned on me. Still, at least I have made some good distance towards Five Rivers.
Casually I check my watch for my progress. I have been running for 10 minutes.
Oh shit.
Luckily, I consumed all my food and water whilst walking 130km through the mountains, so my pack is the lightest it has been all week.
Unluckily, I consumed all my food and water whilst walking 130km through the mountains…so I have nothing to sustain me on this run…and my legs are already like jelly.
Painful, painful jelly. Continue reading
Today, I shall hitch hike back to Queenstown from Te Anau, after a week of walking in the mountains.
Sarah and I have managed to get as far as Mossburn; I have jumped out at the turnoff for Queenstown and she has continued on to Dunedin, on her way back home to Candada.
So here I stand, on Highway 97, waiting for a ride. For two hours.
This is not a huge length of time in hitch-hiking terms, but perhaps ten cars have passed me in total. The statistics are obvious; there simply isn’t enough traffic for me – a bearded and angry looking man – to stand any chance of getting picked up. More to the point, I am bored.
Not a fan of standing still or turning back, I pull out a map and do some pondering. Quickly, I realise I am standing in a bad place, logistically speaking. Continue reading
Reading back, I realise I have been documenting my actions far more than my thoughts and feelings recently. Primarily, this is because I have been confused as of late; uncertain as to who I am and my position in life, let alone my ambitions and the progress I may or may not being making towards fulfilling them.
Having returned from a week in the mountains, however, I am enjoying the brief respite that follows exertion and removal from reality. As ever, I find fatigue helps me meditate and stay calm – two things that do not come naturally or easily to me. Continue reading
I’m going to be honest here. The Routeburn Track was a bit shit. The walk itself was clearly wonderful, but the weather was simply atrocious.
I had hoped to spend at least 3 or 4 days meandering through the mountain pass, having long lunches and taking lots of photographs. Instead, I practically scuttled my way along, steadily being drenched to the bone.
I had heard there was to be snow on the Saturday, but there was none. My dreams of crossing the mountain pass to the Great Divide in the falling snow melted like the snow that didn’t fall. If that makes sense. (It doesn’t – nonexistent snow cannot melt…presumably?) Continue reading
I wake upon the final day of the Routeburn Track and check my clothes. They are drenched. All of them.
Squishing myself back into my boots, I hit the road. I shall not be taking my time today. I shall be running, wherever possible – until I reach THE GREAT DIVIDE!
In reality, the Divide is just the end point of the Routeburn Track. But it will be great to get there!
The first thing i see, upon squelching out of the door of the hut is the lake. It was hidden in mist yesterday:
I am enjoying the trek, but the constant rain is making what should be a gorgeous experience into…well, swimming. On the plus side, I still have my cake! I shall devour it this day. I have that power. Continue reading
I rise late in the Flats hut and break my fast on rye bread, whilst poring over a map of the area.
Today, I shall cross over the mountain pass at a leisurely pace, to take in the spectacular views and scenery. If there is a better way to spend a day, I haven’t found one…but it probably involves feast and fighting…in a mountain pass. Continue reading
The Road to Routeburn is largely uneventful. I chase a cow for a kilometre or so, until she manages to find her way back into her field. I expect she will now taste tainted…or something.
The scenery is magnificent for the entire walk, but I am aware that I am still unlikely to make the Falls hut by dusk.
I am also aware that six litres of water gets quite heavy in the hand after a few hours of walking. Luckily, there is a hut before the Falls called the Flats, which I might still make. I hope so, anyway. It is getting chilly and I am now ‘allowed’ to camp.
I reach the start of the Routeburn Track by 17:00. A sign informs me that the first hut is 1.5 – 2.5 hours away, which is an average time of 2 hours. That’s a Guildman’s Hour*, which is just as well because it will be dark by 18:00. Continue reading
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