Sail Mail, Goodbyes, and Unexpected Beginnings

Every so often, these moments come along that change everything. Sometimes, the path is so clear, you have to wonder how you could have missed seeing it all along. Other times, you end up with a few teabags, some margarine, and a bit of bread in a shopping bag, and get sent into an old caravan in the middle of a cherry orchard because the estate owners are about to watch Coronation Street, after you frantically phoned a dozen places along the Kaikoura Coast because in the morning you've got to move again, and you just have to stop and wonder: “What the hell just happened?”

That's about where I am right now. I think.

The past two weeks in Havelock haven't been exactly predictable at the best of times, but there was a certain routine that you fell into: up early, make some beds, drive a trailer and van along the Pelorus River, play with some kids, cook some greenshell mussels for the hostel guests, drink a bit of wine, go to bed, repeat. And for a few weeks, it was a pretty nice routine to fall into. In my last few days, I walked along the Motuweka Pathway, a small finger of land in the middle of the harbour that only takes about 45 minutes to do, but passes through a small (but old) cemetery and right alongside an estuary that's a major playground for birds. 

Down along the Pelorus, I did some bushwhacking, past some waterfalls and a steep, forested incline called the Trig K Track – I passed through some old, dense forests, but with an overcast sky and no view to speak of at the top, the hokley pokey ice cream at the roadside cafe was probably the highlight of that day.

Yesterday though, I made a discovery – a discovery made so late during my stay that I ran the very real risk of missing it and having to kick myself from now until the arthritis sets in. Searching the Pelorus River on Google, I came across this little video (go to about the 11-minute mark):

It turns out that “Barrels out of Bond,” the part of The Hobbit where Bilbo and the Dwarves escape Mirkwood and get to Lake-town via wine barrels moving down the Forest River, was filmed right beneath the Pelorus Bridge, a spot  I pass nearly every day. How had we not heard about this? Well, because that's a scene from the next Hobbit movie, and because the official locations guides haven't been published yet, if anyone were to print out brochures or advertise their spot as a location from The Hobbit, Warner Bros. would pull a little legal move called “Suing the Bejesus out of them.” Word of mouth is the only way to do it right now – but Shane told me that he's thought about buying a few barrels, putting weights on the bottom so they'll stay upright, and snapping your picture as you passed that spot. Weirdos like me would probably come from all parts of the world to ride that, and say “Thag you very buch” as they do it; meanwhile, the proprietor would pull a little capitalist move called “Charging the Bejesus out of you.”

But that's for another day. What I could do (and did do, you can be sure) was grab a towel and jump into the crystal clear water beneath the bridge on a sunny afternoon.

I cooked my last pot of mussels that night, walked by the dazzling glowworms for the last time, and settled down for my last night in my cozy little dorm bed.

I might as well have tried sleeping on a runway at Heathrow Airport. Everyone has been around a snorer before – it sucks, but you get used to it, and eventually push it out of your skull long enough to slip into sleep. Mmhmm. I suppose you'd also get used to living underwater or suddenly having to speak Russian too, but not in one night. Suffice to say, this guy could be the defending world champion of snoring, not the kind of guy you want 7 feet from your head. When I finally did manage to drift into an uneasy sleep because of the horrendous din, my dreams were so lame that I had a lucid moment of just being like, “Screw this, I'm waking up.”

Three o'clock in the morning, fingers in my ear, pillow wrapped around my head. “This is the worst. And there's nothing I can do, other than go wake the guy up. It's not like I can just walk behind the reception desk, find out what room is free, grab all my sheets and a key, go in there and sneak out early in the morning, before everyone else is awake . . .”

Best sleep ever.

This morning, I was up early to make the Pelorus Mail Boat (and partially to destroy the evidence of my late night sojourn). Out in the Pelorus Sound, far away from grocery stores, roads, and even electricity in some spots, there are little dotted habitations: B&Bs for hikers and boaters, mussel and sheep farms, even folks who trap possums. And these people aren't just out and about all the time; if they need supplies or a mail service, it has to come in by boat. Since 1918, that's been provided by a private company, which also makes the route (three different ones, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays) a bit of a sightseeing tour through one of the main chunks of the Marlborough Sounds.

From 9:30, beneath clear skies, until 5:00 in the evening, a boatload of some 50 people got whisked into this dream world, amongst the hills, buoyed lines of mussels, the glassy water, the blue penguins, a gannet colony, and other seabirds. 

I also learned a bit about the history of tiny Havelock – how it went from a thriving town during the gold rush to a logging and farming spot, and eventually found another boom in the 1980s with mussel farming in the Sounds. Oh, and the backpackers next to Blue Moon, the Rutherford YHA, is so-called because it used to be a primary school where Ernest Rutherford went – y'know, the dude who was the father of nuclear physics, has a chemical element named after him, and who got sick of the way the atom was laid out so he went and split the crap out of it.

The route traversed an immense labyrinth of scenery, with a few stops to drop off bags containing a week's worth of mail. It wasn't to weird recluse figures that pop up in 19th century novels, either – it was families (most of them having dogs) who came right down to the jetties to say hello to the skipper and the passengers, and even in one case to give us homemade Valentine's Day cookies. This is isolation though, a way of life that's completely removed from the normal ebb and flow of society. For kids, homeschooling is the only option, and we're talking by books; no broadband internet out here. If a family isn't going to be around to pick up their mail for an given week, they better let the mail boat know, because otherwise they're going to have to come looking for you – a lot of things could happen to a person, out here in the literal middle of nowhere.

But what an experience it must be, to live like this. I would only be able to do it for a short time, but everywhere has a great window for reflection and to slow down. We stopped at a little beach for a swim and a walk around, and there was a little lookout point, but that seemed a bit silly when I got there – the entire day-trip was a lookout point.

I'm glad I got to feel a seabreeze on my face and get lost in the Pelorus Sound. It felt like a satisfying end to my time in Havelock – now, I was ready to enter wine country, and snagged a ride to the outskirts of Blenheim with a few fellow passengers after parting ways with Jennie and Ed. 

And so here we are. Woah woah woah. “What the hell just happened?”

I pulled into Ryland Estates about two hours ago. My WWOOFing host was waiting for me, eating a plum, and as he sold my driver a bag of cherries, casually mentioned that he no longer had a spot for me.

Stellar. Let's play this one out, shall we?

An emergency came up, phrased in such a way that no matter how confused and indignant you are, you're not sure if it's polite to follow up by saying, “Oh yeah? What?” I didn't probe, and all he could do was say that he had no way of getting in touch with me (stupidly, that's true), and that he'd counted on me arriving earlier, so we could have sorted things out in the afternoon. He gave me a beer, some bacon and eggs, and an Internet password, in hopes that I'd figure something out before I got the heave ho in the morning. Thankfully there's still electricity out here in the caravan – he was prepared to give me a flashlight if not.

I don't [entirely] mean to paint this guy as a total creep. And, to be fair, I just had to brush my teeth with water from the outdoor shower, since there's nowhere else nearby to get it – perhaps I got a lucky break in getting turned away.

At any rate, signing up with the actual WWOOFing association was a lucky stroke, giving me the contact numbers of about a dozen farms in the Kaikoura area, a spot along the coast about 2 hours south of Blenheim, where I was planning on heading eventually anyway (mountains and whales? Sign me up). A day is short notice, it turns out, but you can strike out a few times before you throw the game. Eventually, a hit – some landscaping in the Mt. Fyffe area for a few days, hopefully enough time to figure out where to go from here. Oh, and I just so happen to know an English duo who are driving that way tomorrow afternoon with space for one displaced Canadian.

On the mail boat today, I met a really cool pair from Sussex who had lived quite the life, and gave me some advice. “A wise person once told me that, when you come to a crossroad in your life, stick to the path that you chose, and don't look back.” Let me add something to that advice – when you get completely lost in the woods, make your own path, and stick to it. Get muddy, get cut up by branches, but keep on going.

It's worked out pretty good so far, one month in.

Cheers,

rb