Trans-Hemispheric

The flight from San Francisco to Auckland took just twelve hours, and it never stops surprising me how quickly you can be delivered into a completely different part of the world. We landed at half past five, New Zealand time, into darkness and rain. Riding from the airport into the city was clearly out of the question, so we arranged transport instead. Having woken in San Francisco at six one morning without much sleep on the plane, and now finding it six o’clock again on the other side of the world, we were left with the task of staying awake through an entire extra day to avoid wrecking our sleep pattern for good. It was hard going, and we both gave up and flaked out around eight that evening.

We spent a few quiet days around Auckland, mostly in one of the inner-city suburbs, Ponsonby, easing off the jet lag. After so many months in the US, it very nearly felt like a return home — the streets, the cars, the buildings all carried a familiar look, and the people had a faintly British air about them. The one thing we missed straight away was American IPA, New Zealand’s beer selection leaving a fair bit to be desired, though this was more than made up for by the return of all my favourite Cadbury’s chocolate, and by “cheers mate” once again being an acceptable thing to say without earning a look of bewilderment. Sarcasm, too, could be dropped into conversation without explanation, exactly as it can at home.

All I watched on the plane was Ferris Bueller, Community and this screen.

Seen one city seen ‘em all, still Auckland was nice.

Room carnage. Seriously.

One thing I love about travelling on a loaded bike is that everybody talks to you. Having spent a few days as plain-clothed Ryan, it felt good to be back in lycra and out on the road again. Nobody in the hostel had been especially chatty until the moment I stood in reception with bags and bike ready to leave, at which point I ended up talking to every backpacker who passed. I was particularly pleased when one girl asked, excitedly, whether I was from Newcastle — close enough, and reassuring proof that my accent was still intact. I left pumping up my tyres just outside the hostel, only to discover my rear had somehow gone flat in the meantime, which set us back a further thirty minutes.

Finding our way out of Auckland was simple enough: down to the bay and along the bike path for ten miles. The towns grew gradually smaller and more rural until we were properly out in the sticks, with a decidedly British feel and smell to the place — cows, sheep, and manure, mmm. But just as the landscape starts to feel familiar, New Zealand throws you a curveball. Sheep grazing in one field will give way to something like temperate rainforest around the next corner, and then to a thermal pool or a geyser after that. It made for fascinating riding, and left me curious to see what else the country had in store.

Nice bike path out of Auckland.

Flora seems to change rapidly.

After camping at Orere Point we set out early along the coastline, and what struck me was that a bay which back home would have been lined with million-dollar homes was instead given over to fields of grazing cattle — lucky animals. It was a short, fairly uneventful ride to the town of Paeroa, where the camping option listed on our map proved hard to track down. At the information centre, the only camping anyone knew of was an overnight parking area on the edge of the public domain. Not strictly meant for tents, we pitched there regardless. A few local kids, well past their bedtime, wandered over and started firing questions at me — “Do you have grass in England?” and “What rugby team do you support?” — clearly delighted, and they insisted on striking aggressive poses for a commemorative photo once I showed them pictures from the US on my camera.

From one Pacific coast to another…

Unsurprisingly, Middlesbrough’s finest export is named everywhere here. REPRESENT.

Paeroa, apparently ‘World Famous’ for a drink called L&P.

My two marra’s Tatu and Chopi.

Camping at the Domain. Semi-legit.

It rained overnight, and being pitched at the base of a small hill, the water had run down underneath our tents. It found its way through my groundsheet and left a small puddle inside my own tent. Wet tents are miserable things to roll up and heavier still to carry. We ate breakfast in town and set off on a fresh, ever-brightening morning — springtime here at the moment, having jumped straight from summer into spring by switching hemispheres and skipping autumn and winter entirely, which I still hadn’t quite worked out how I felt about. Is it possible to miss scraping ice off the car on a dark, frosty morning, driving one-handed with the other tucked under your shirt until the heater finally kicks in?

The roads in New Zealand are fairly narrow, with little to no shoulder — and yes, for anyone wondering, it’s zed here, not zee — but with a country the size of the UK holding only around four and a half million people, the traffic stays light. We stopped in Te Aroha at the public domain, their term for a town park, and found a lovely recreation area, well kept, with spa pools drawing on the local geothermal activity, barbecue spots, and a short walking trail up into the hillside, which we spent some time exploring.

Continuing on mostly back roads, treated to some spectacular waterfalls as we rode alongside a small mountain range, we arrived at the Okoroire Hot Springs Hotel, part of a golf course complex that also had a small camping area. The kiwi running the place told us about a five-dollar roast on offer in the lounge from six, too good to pass up, and we joined all the locals for what was clearly a popular local spot — it had the feel of a working men’s club back home, rugby on the only television, and excellent people-watching. Beside the camp field, a river ran down toward the hot pool area, closed for the evening, but the walking track beside it led into a magical patch of forest where I wandered happily for the best part of an hour, free of charge.

Watch your footing there Eal, half the Tees running by your tent…

Wet tent is wet. Still wish you were doing this?

Swimming hole.

I had this song in my head the whole way.