Almost Dunedin

I woke to freshly powdered mountain tops surrounding Queenstown and was eager to get out and explore. First things first: laundry, restocking supplies, the usual admin. I met a couple of German bike tourers finishing breakfast, wrapping up a rest day of their own before hitting the road again. Chores done, Eal, our hostel roomie Adrian from Adelaide and I decided to hike up to the Ben Lomond lookout, quizzing Adrian about Australia through a steep hour’s climb as adrenalin-fuelled mountain bikers rattled fearlessly past us on the way down. The view over Queenstown and the Remarkables was stunning, and grey cloud began sprinkling us with light snow just after I’d been declaring how my upcoming birthday would be the first spent somewhere warm. These mountains clearly don’t respect my seasons, but I forgave them — they’re as majestic as they are immovable.

Eal finally had a shave, the first since Boston as far as I could recall, though he kept the moustache for a night out with a group of people we’d befriended over pool at the hostel. Walking into a bar packed to the rafters, music blaring, felt strangely alien — not that I’m anti-social, far from it, but something about the crowd and the elbow-bashing didn’t sit right, and I think all the time spent out on the road had made the whole scene harder to slip back into than it should have been. Eal and I had two drinks before retreating somewhere quieter, in search of gown, slipper and pipe territory — a bar we’d agreed to visit because our old technical director’s brother happened to manage it. He treated us to a free nightcap, good conversation, and the first half of a Manchester United versus Arsenal match, lunchtime kickoff back home landing at midnight here.

Our second rest day in Queenstown, Eal wasn’t feeling great, possibly coming down with a touch of man flu, so I wandered the town and the lakefront feeling a little aimless myself. With the trip drawing to a close there was suddenly so much to organise and prepare for the Australia chapter that I felt slightly overwhelmed by all of it, wanting to do everything and managing to start nothing, staring at the mountains and watching the ducks while my head ran through jobs, locations, accommodation, bank accounts, visas. It was the first day I noticed the shift — from thinking about the riding still ahead of me to accepting that it was coming to an end, the weight of everything I’d need to build again after leaving my comfortable life in the UK pressing on my mind. I could have used a pick-me-up, or a hug. Knowing that people around the world were still wishing me well helped me believe in myself, even so.

German tour buddies.

Eal and our roomie Adrian truckin’ up to the lookout.

Hum dee hum.

Leaving Queenstown meant backtracking the way we’d come before turning east toward Alexandra. Eal was still feeling pretty lousy, a slight fever and general fatigue dragging on him, and we made hard work of what should have been a relatively short, flat day. Thankfully we had delightful Warmshowers hosts waiting for us at the end of it — our first in New Zealand, and their first guests of what would turn into a busy season, their house sitting right on the Central Otago rail trail.

There was steep climbing to follow the next morning, short, sharp hills that reminded me of riding in the Pennines, tough going. I knew almost immediately that Eal had crossed the line from under the weather to properly sick. After the first flurry of climbs I stopped to wait for him, and he was really struggling, clearly in need of a bed, sleep and some Lemsip. Our options were limited to Lawrence. The distance itself wasn’t much, but at the pace we were managing it would take considerable time, Eal with no energy left and riding the whole way in his lowest gears.

Given his condition, the limits of his sleeping bag, and the cold forecast for the night, camping was off the table. I found us a small cabin, the kind almost every New Zealand campground offers, basic but warm, with proper beds, and Eal more or less collapsed straight into the sheets. I rode out to find us food — fish and chips — and the smell alone seemed to lift his spirits enough that he managed a decent amount before falling asleep. It was still early, around eight, but I rolled over and went to sleep myself, thoroughly worn out. We’d both quietly accepted, by then, that we were ready to be done with riding and living out of panniers. Six months is a long time to go without the steadiness of house keys, familiar walls, a regular shower, a reliably stocked fridge. Bicycle touring, like most things worth doing, asks as much of your head as it does of your legs, and that side of it should never be underestimated.

Electronic toilets that talk to you!

I eat the skin, some people have a problem with that. Waste not, want not.

A glorious spring morning reminded me to make the most of this last week in New Zealand. I flew out of the gate ahead and reached the first town at the halfway point, sitting down to eat food I’d picked up at the market while I waited for Eal, who was taking it easy behind me. By the time he caught up he’d taken a real turn for the worse, throwing up by the roadside and in no state to pedal another stroke. We still needed to reach Dunedin that day, only another twenty miles away, but there was next to no public transport out here. At the information centre an old volunteer, Nancy, called the only bus company that passes through — their sole service of the day had already gone through, but they agreed to turn around and come back for us. I sprinted down to the park bench where Eal was resting, told him the good news, and we got ourselves ready at the stop. We arrived in Dunedin, found the hostel we’d booked, and tucked Eal straight into bed with some medication.

Eal felt better the following day, though still pretty weak, not having eaten properly in days. I went for a ride out to the peninsula, hoping to spot a yellow-eyed penguin, tipped off by our Warmshowers host in Alexandra. It was tough going even on an unloaded bike, followed by a long hike across the sand, stepping carefully around sleeping sea lions — worth the effort on its own — to reach the wooden hideout overlooking the nesting areas. I’d been warned to be patient, and after nearly an hour of waiting I was starting to lose hope of seeing anything at all.

Then, finally, a little penguin slid ashore and waddled its way toward the rocks, hopping in careful two-foot bounds between the gaps, remarkably agile for something so ungainly on land. I spent the rest of the evening with a smile wider than Stockton high street. A special little bird, and worth the wait. Dunedin itself is a strikingly Scottish town, bagpipes drifting through the streets, and something about its architecture — New Zealand’s finest, apparently — made it feel very much like a typical British city. This would be our last proper rest before we finished, for good, in Christchurch on my birthday, just a few days away.

The hideout.

Penguin!