First Impressions Of South Island

We caught the afternoon ferry at Wellington alongside a group of about twenty riders on beautiful road bikes, out on a charity tour, and one other loaded tourer, riding solo from Vancouver. The crossing took a little over two hours; Eal hadn’t brought his sea legs with him and felt distinctly queasy as the water turned choppy. Still, up on the top deck the view over the Marlborough Sounds made for a staggering entrance to the south island, and our stop for the night, Picton. We found a campground just two miles from the terminal, though our tents had been packed away wet the entire stay in Wellington and now carried the distinct aroma of a damp football sock. Breathe through your mouth, I told myself, buoyed at the thought of the south island ahead. Our second ferry crossing of the trip was behind us — just one more flight left to catch now, from Christchurch to Brisbane.

Canny breezy out on the deck, like.

Ben from Vancouver.

The next morning was a public holiday in New Zealand — Labour Day — and we’d been told to check out Renwick and the wineries around it, threaded together with trails built especially for cyclists, and home too to the Moa beer brewery. It was only twenty-five miles from Picton, but seemed too good to pass up, so we covered the distance early and stopped for lunch at the Three Bears Cafe to line our stomachs first. Watson’s Backpackers in town gave us a good deal to camp in the garden and use the kitchen and showers, and once the bags were down we headed straight back out to the cellar doors we’d passed coming into town, on what turned out to be a perfect, sunny spring afternoon.

We stopped in at a few tasting rooms — a couple of self-styled culture vultures, decked out in lycra. This is white wine and bubbles country, mostly delightful and distinctive. Midway through our vineyard-hopping we reached the Moa brewery, where three of the five we tried were good enough that I couldn’t resist buying a bottle to carry for the road tomorrow. The last stop was right in town: Gibson Bridge, the smallest operation in the area, family run. Julie gave us easily the most entertaining and engaging talk of the tasting, and her husband Howard came out afterward to chat about our trip well past closing time, before sending us off with some free wine for the road. Thanks, guys.

Standard issue brekkie-fast.

Velcro stripper pants would be easier, Eal…

Please sir, can I have some more? Oliver Twist, Linthorpe primary anyone?

Free wine donated by Gibson Bridge!

Having failed to find a working ATM in either Picton or Renwick, we were both running low on cash, and the towns ahead of us for the next few days looked set to be few and far between with very limited services. I stocked up at the supermarket to make sure I had enough meals and snacks to last three days — a discipline I always find difficult on a bike, since it’s hard to resist tomorrow’s chocolate bar once today’s ration is already gone by ten in the morning. Gone were the days I could count on Flavia for a swedish fish treat in the afternoons, and Eal, for his part, tends to eat all three days’ worth before he’s even started riding. When they’re gone, they’re gone, as my mum used to say about the sweets.

There was nothing at all leaving Renwick except stunning scenery, so our rest stops were made by the roadside, sitting on the grass. At one point Eal caught up with me while I was perched by a fence having lunch in the sun, and by the time we were riding again it had started to sleet — icy showers coming straight off the surrounding mountains. The sudden change in weather and temperature had us pulling on every layer we owned to stay warm. We were both attacked by the most aggressive magpie yet, one that swooped Eal from the front and clattered his helmet from behind. Strong headwinds blasted us from the west, though the one blessing was that they pushed the worst of the weather over our heads, and blue sky prevailed once again.

A steep climb carried us past ski-field signs toward St Arnaud, bringing us out at the base of the stunning Lake Rotoiti, ringed by mountains. It was a fairly primitive campsite, with a bench and small shelter to sit out the cold, one side left open to the elements. A frosty night lay ahead, and Eal was worried — my sleeping bag is rated to minus eleven, his only down to plus one. Ducks joined us for dinner, which we washed down with the excellent Moa Five Hops I’d carried since the day before.

Bemused by the sudden sleet shower.

Soon cleared up!

Humbling and inspiring, my best words for some of the NZ scenery.

Like lots of road pictures? You’re in the right place.

I want to see a kiwi more than anything else here!

Camping by the lake.

Ducks joined us for tea.

Bottle of Moa Five Hop picked up yesterday, jacket-and-hood weather with frost due!

I woke cold several times through the night, my nose the only exposed part of me, and was relieved to get a reply from Eal to my shout at eight in the morning, confirming he hadn’t frozen solid. Our feet were like ice blocks; there was little more than a tiny petrol station in St Arnaud, and we stopped in there to thaw out for half an hour before setting off. It stayed chilly through the day, and I kept my extra fleece gloves on for most of it.

Our destination for the evening was another primitive campspot called Lyell, just off Highway 6, down deep in the Buller river gorge we’d be riding all day. We were grateful to find Murchison, the first proper settlement since Renwick, with a small supermarket where we could restock before pushing on toward the New Zealand outback. Two days without a shower, and tomorrow I’d be adding more sweat to that particular ledger for good measure. The cold makes it tricky to layer correctly — the last thing you want in these temperatures is to start sweating under your kit, because if you stop and the wind picks up you’ll get the worst of the chill for it. Thankfully it was milder than the night before, so I managed to save my hoody from making contact with my increasingly rancid riding gear.

Brushing by the road often draws bewildered looks.

Cold hands Eal is not impressed by the chilly morning. He also hasn’t approved this photo.

What’s up with Emu.

Small town of Murchison.

Matthew David Eley, get down from there immediately.

Fettuccine sunset.