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MAY BLOG: The arrival of the Frank Burkitt caravan in the Land of the Long White Cloud was the stimulus for an epic road trip around the South Island's natural and folkie wonders. My trusty 500 dollar Honda Civic, sounding ever more like a lawn-mower with every passing day, strimmed the verges of some of New Zealand's most beautiful roads and most terrifying gradients.

First off we pressed up Arthur's Pass, tackling the awe-inspiring mountain pass with many a Stan Rogers sea shanty to inspire the ailing car to ever greater heights of endeavour. Eight hours later (narrowly missing a cow standing in our lane) we were at Franz Joseph glacier and tucking into some well earned pints of the foul "Monteith's Celtic" in a local bar when we were offered a free shot by a canny Kiwi bar man. Never one to turn down free booze I accepted and persuaded Frank it would be a good idea. The lesson learned was never to accept a free shot from someone you don't trust as the hideous concotion was laced with more chilli powder than the province of Rajasthan must go through in a month, provoking involuntary vomitous over the bar's balcony to land in a neat red splatter 15 feet below outside the front window of the dining quarters of the pub. We reprised to a pub serving Guinness to settle the stomach and spent the rest of the evening on our backs looking at a magnificent spread of stars which at this altitude made the milky way look like a white ribbon accross the night sky.

The following day's drive through Hasst Pass was spectacular and a battering from the Tasman Ocean cleared any lingering hang-over from the night previous. We stopped the car for a break when we saw a white sandy beach below us from the road above and trekked through some lush rainforest and a cold stream to emerge suddenly on a magnificent stretch of sand with waves 15 feet tall rolling up onto it and dying in a flat slick of white foam. Walking along the forest track made me feel close to what it must have been like for the original Western settlers stumbling upon New Zealand two hundred years previous. Getting into the sea however must be what being inside a settling pint of Guinness is like. Exposing our skin to the elements was refreshing but a large number of evil Sandflies (beasties like big midges) descended on us and we fled back to the Civic.

Onward to Queenstown and then a wonderful drive to Milford Sound, the closest that New Zealand comes to capturing something of the remote atmosphere of the far North West Highlands of Scotland (but without the ancient crofts). The only human habitation there is a hostel with a shop that fits into a broom cupboard and a pub that is never open. This is dwarfed by mountains two or three times the height of Ben Nevis which soar immediately and unavoidably out of the glassy calm and deep sound. With food in short supply I took my small trout rod to the pier and proceeded to hook small sharks upon every cast. Every time the fish bit through my line before I could get it to the surface. Realising we needed bigger hooks and thicker line we were lucky to run into a lobster fisherman called Kahu who provided us with some line as thick as a young tree trunk and hooks which could hang a red deer carcass. These did the trick and after several more attempts I had landed a small shark which we ate for dinner. The novelty of catching a shark prompted me to drive around telling all and sundry who would lend an ear that "I have a shark in the passenger seat of my Civic!!!". This only seemed to impress tourists however, as the locals who saw it did not bat an eyelid as they drawled "if you're going to eat that you'd better cut it's tail off soon or it'll taste like shite". I should have listened as the shark tasted like old rubber, Dave's garlic contaminated cake would have been a comparative relief.

Leaving the remote Milford Sound Lodge felt a bit like leaving Rivindell and the Civic's compass was set for New Zealand's highest peak, the mighty Mt Cook. After the solitude of Milford Sound and a 9 hour drive we were all looking forward to the pubs at Mt Cook settlement promised in our trusty Lonely Planet guide. I felt my foot easing the accelerator ever closer to the floor as we passed a moonlit Lake Pukaki and I realised that we might still make happy hour. Far from happy hour we found that every pub in the place was closed "for winter". The only outlet for bottled Guinness was the Hermitage Hotel which had the atmosphere of a Holiday Inn mixed with an Airport, compensated for by magnificent views of a frosty majestic peak we mistook for Mt Cook and lavished in praise and photographs. I later discovered it was the much smaller Mt Sefton.

Dwarfed by the mightly starlit Southern Alps and after a bottle of Jackman's Ridge Frank and I got to discussing the insignificance of humanity and our petty concerns. This led to a chorus of a song which we composed in honour of New Zealand and our road trip:

"Up here there's no need to fret,
about your Carbon Debt.
For ice and rock and sky and stone,
will outlast skin and bone"

Back in Christchurch there was time for a parting glass and a tune or two in Pomeroy's Bar which was made memorable by the company of Laura and Argene of the wonderful local band Emeralds and Greenstone who have been fusing Maori and Celtic influences in their own brand of contemporary folk music, supporting the likes of Dick Gaughan at the Christchurch Folk Club. Some lovely Bodhran, whistles, flutes and sweet vocals added to our guitar and singing. Frank's "Who's Glad They're Not Australian", typically, went down a treat and I hope it shall not be the last we here of Emeralds and Greenstone on the Garden Sessions.

A fond farewell to Frank and his lady Kara, catch you later down the folkie trail, Tom

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