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AUGUST BLOG: One gloomy evening recently in Christchurch as I was nursing a well-earned pint of thin, almost fizzy Guinness, the bar-man who was kind enough to lend an ear to my gurning about the state of New Zealand's black stuff (not the currently abject rugby team) suggested I travel to northerly Picton where, he wagered, I could sample the best pint of Guinness the country has to offer in a small irish bar.

There were two potential hurdles to clear in my quest for the South Island's best Guinness.

Firstly my informant could not remember the name of the bar but, after scouring the well-thumbed pages of my trusty Lonely Planet, I discovered that Picton is home to "Seamus's" which, I hypothesised, would be a likely sounding venue to host a fine pint of Guinness, if such a thing exists in the Land of the Long White Cloud. With a population of only 4000 people, I further imagined that it would not be hard to track down the legendary ale. Even if Picton had more than just the one Irish bar, I felt confident I could probably manage to get round them all over the course of a weekend.

Secondly the weather outlook was bleak at best, dangerous at worst. A brooding low pressure system cooked up by the Anatarctic wastes was moving with frightening speed up the South island, and the government had issued warnings that non-essential travel should be avoided due to the risks of flooding, snow, rockfalls and high seas on the roads. After 6 months without even wetting my whistle on a pint of Guinness which matched the calibre of that of the Royal Oak in Edinburgh, I considered this journey to be essential travel.

Setting of on a wild, stormy friday night my beleagured Honda Civic, sounding like a cross between a child being skewered and a souped up rickshaw, pishing oil from a crack somewhere in under the bonnet (any self respecting kiwi male could both diagnose and fix the problem, alas I'm a folkie not a Kiwi), rode the very teeth of the gale and was blown northwards past the beautiful town of Kaikoura (where Garden Sessions' very own Frank Burkitt saw a whale). Stopping only briefly to re-fuel on petrol, leaked oil and caffine, we trundled on ahead of the weather towards Picton.

Arriving in the dead of night is thought only to be a phrase but, to the uninitiated, Picton did indeed look very dead when I arrived. Luckily my hostel, "The Villa", was a bohemian and welcoming affair complete with an outdoor hot tub which I was sorely tempted to warm up in. Nevertheless my temptation to try the black stuff proved the stronger and I braved the Anatarctic temperatures and lashing rain to find Seamus's.

I almost wept for joy when I swung open the door of a small and unassuming pub near the waterfront. A roaring fire kept out the winter chill, low beams and nictonie yellowed walls made the place look at least 500 years old and the small bar stocked with whisky looked almost identical to that of my beloved local at home. Even better, the place was heaving with pished locals and a fine looking acoustic guitar was being passed around.

So far so good, but my anticipation peaked as a newly poured pint was handed across the bar from the Irish owner Alistair. Could this place truly be my saviour in a land bereft of traditional pubs and decent Guinness? The first sip told me that the answer was a resounding yes. Before I had time to draw breath I'd downed five or six pints and was drunkenly chatting with hammered local fisherman about the storm, in between playing songs on the house guitar.

The next day I awoke with a crippling hang-over and drunk 3 litres of pounding tropical juice in the hot tub, before braving a peek at Picton. Very much like Portree in Skye, it is at the head of a deep sea loch (Queen Charlotte Sound) and is the point of departure for the ferry leaving to the north island. The town's sleepy rhythm seems to revolve around the arrival and departure of the Inter-Islander, as well as the weather prospects for the currently itinerant (and monstrously drunk) local fisherman.

Under the sober light of day I returned to Seamus's, just to check the night before wasn't a trick of my imagination. I was exceptionally well treated by the landlord Alistair and his lady Liz, who even made me a batch of scones. I was intrigued to hear that the pub was only 5 years old, but so faithful was their reproduction of two of their locals in the Emerald Isle, that they had even had their son apply marigold coloured paint streaks to the walls to replicate nicotine stains.

Again my memories of leaving Seamus's were hazy, testimony to the strength and quality of the Guinness and the hospitality of its friendly owners and locals. All expatriates should seek out this magnificent pub!!!

Catch you later down the folkie trail, Tom

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