Days 13-15: Westport-Punakaiki-Greymouth-Pukekura

Bike Day 13: Westport to Punakaiki

Trip Day 22
45.65 miles

Today was a brilliantly clear and sunny day.  "So much for the infamous West Coast weather", thought I.  I was keen to make the most of this unexpected fortune and so left the hostel in due haste.  The night previous I had made the acquaintance of a young Dutch lad who was hitchhiking his way all the way across NZ.  He was my only roommate in our 8 bed dorm and so I had spoke to him at length about just how easy he was finding getting a ride across this country.  People here seemed incredibly generous and he would often be waiting no longer than 20 minutes for a ride.  In all seriousness and without a hint of sarcasm, I would happily have accepted a hitchhiker were I able to physically accommodate one.  Anyway, I spotted my bunk mate on the road and I waved as I made my way South to the next stage of my adventure.


Today I was free to do as I wished.  Between here and Greymouth, the largest town on the west coast, lay several places that I might be able to make camp for the night.  This section of the west coast is considered amongst the most spectacular of the road compared favourably to the Pacific Coast Highway of North America and so it was with this great sense of new-found adventure that I pedalled my way along the coastal road.  I had read about the famous "Pancake Rock" formations at the small settlement of Punakaiki which was a bit of a rest stop for tourists and offered beach-front accommodation.  I thought it prudent to stop in and enjoy the views from this beautiful spot that lay approximately 40 miles from Westport.

Before heading onto SH6 and South down the main stretch of the coastal highway, I decided to take a slight detour to the appropriately (and hilariously) named Cape Foulwind.  This cape was named by Captain Cook when he was unable to land his vessel ashore due to the aforementioned foul winds.  There we go, who says this blog isn't educational?  I took a quick break at the cape and went for stroll up to the lighthouse; admiring the views over the Tasman Sea as I did.  It was incredibly important to me that I did not sacrifice seeing this beautiful country to just get the miles in and plough through the trek.  I did not wish to return after a 1200 mile with memories only of tarmac and the inside of my tent.  With this diversion completed, I mounted up and made my way back inland towards the main road heading South.

The road then began to wind its way through the hills and back towards the coastline.  I had around 10 miles of hilly terrain, including one particularly vicious climb before I was once again on the coast and pedalling my way into the village of Charleston.  It was lunchtime and I was hungry (I was always hungry) so I stopped at the first cafe I found en route and sat down to eat.  It might not surprise you to learn that my lunch for the day was some form of big sandwich-y thing, a black coffee, a bottle of Coke and a caramel slice; I was starting to get bored of this diet and after this outing I decided to try and mix it up a bit...  As I sat down to eat I got chatting to an older couple next to me.  Just as a quick aside here, that's the thing about conducting your business whilst wearing a cycle jersey and carrying a helmet around with you; you can guarantee conversation from curious onlookers.  The chap told me that it was all downhill to Greymouth from here; in the first few days I might have fallen for this but I used to the deadpan Kiwi humour and so took this to mean I had one or two hills ahead of me.  I finished up and went to leave when who should I bump in to...?  All together now: Julie!  Of course.  Having taken a slightly longer detour to see the Cape and the nearby seal colony, my french bicycle-loving friend had caught up with me.  Seeing my bike chained up outside she had decided to drop in for some refreshments.  I was bored of keeping up the pretence that we would not bump into each other again, she was now officially my travel buddy and there was nothing she could do about it.  We agreed to meet up at the pancake rocks in Punakaiki; the skies were blue and beautiful and I was looking forward to camping in such a beautiful location.

Happy that I now had a plan I continued on my merry way, the road becoming ever-more scenic with every mile pedalled.  The sky was a cloudless light blue, the sea crashed dramatically against the cliffs and I reminded myself once more quite how fortunate I was to be in a place of seemingly endless natural beauty.  After about 16 miles I found myself at my destination; the tiny settlement of Punakaiki.  The beachside town held only a few houses, campsite, one hostel and one overpriced bar/restaurant.  The town was famous for its so-called pancake rocks, Putai blowhole, rainforest hikes and glowworm caves; enough to occupy a passing backpacker for a day or two but small enough to be burdened by the coach-driven tourists who would arrive en masse to flock to the rocks.  Rather than stop in the town I decided to pedal up the hill towards the tourist info centre and aforementioned pancake rocks.  I stopped at the info centre and made myself my now-customary peanut butter sandwich and took a look at the accommodation options available.  Not wanting to spoil myself with another night in a hostel I decided that I would head back to the town and check out the beach-side campground; sandflies be damned.  I turned around and pedalled back down the hill towards the beach.

I was reunited with Julie as she was parking her bike up against the side of a hostel.  When asked why she was choosing not to camp she informed me that it was due to rain heavily overnight and didn't want to soak her tent.  I had foolishly not checked the weather forecast and so decided to follow Julie's lead and check into the hostel.  I felt fortunate that I had bumped into her when I did; since my soaking back in Motupiko I had had no real chance to dry the tent out and did not fancy another damp night in the tent.  Top travel tip; find yourself a travel buddy like Julie and you won't regret it.  The Punakaiki Beach Hostel ended up being one of my favourite hostels of the trip.  It was a relaxed place with views over the seafront and a nice homely vibe.  In a country with so many backpackers and budget travellers I think there were too many large-scale hostels that lost an element of personality in favour of packing people in the rooms; this hostel was not one of those.

Julie and I agreed to head off and explore the pancake rocks post-dinner later that evening and so I now found myself walking back up the hill towards the info centre and rocks.  The pancake rocks are named as such due to the unexplained natural phenomena that has caused the rocks to flatten and stack in an almost unnatural formation.  With the crashing waves in the background this made for a breathtaking setting which ended a glorious day on the bike.  We decided to leave the rocks and head back down the hill to the hostel, diverting into the glowworm caves as we did.  I realised at that time more than ever that I craved company during these expeditions; that evening would certainly have been far more dull had I been by myself, much like my trek across the Tongariro Crossing the week before.  But now it was dark and I was tired and I had had a long day on the bike.  It was time to seek shelter in the hostel and prepare myself for a long few days ahead.  The further south that I went, the more sparsely-populated it would become and the likelihood that I would be able to take shelter in the luxury of a hostel would be low.  But for now I could sleep soundly in my bed with the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach only a few metres away.  Piece of cake this cycle touring, eh?

 

Bike Day 14: Punakaiki to Greymouth

Trip Day 23
31.7 miles

I woke to the sound of rain.  Bollocks.  I knew that it would rain overnight but I had secretly hoped that it would miraculously stop as I woke up.  No such divine intervention on this particular instance sadly and I would start my fourteenth (fourteenth!!) day in the rain.  Such was the changeable weather on the South Island that I frequently found myself changing into and out of my waterproofs - not the easiest of tasks on the verge of the road in rain and wind but preferable to getting wet and miserable I can assure you.  Julie had woken earlier than me and had gotten out of the hostel nice and early; she had told me the evening before that she didn't believe we would meet again on the road.  I had a hunch that we might bump into each other again once or twice before the trip was over.

Today's target was the town of Greymouth.  Greymouth, a town of around 9750 inhabitants, is the largest town on the whole of the West Coast and was my last big stop before hitting glacier country.  I planned to only stop in town for lunch and then pedal off to the smaller town of Hokitika to stay overnight.  "Good, solid plan" I thought and I packed the panniers and pushed off on my pedals.  Luckily for me the rain began to ease up as I followed the highway inland for around 10 miles, passing through the tiny village of Barrytown and eventually finding myself coming back to the coast.  I had prepared a pack lunch the day previous and ate on the stoney beach, not another human being in sight for as far as the eye could see.  Utter bliss.

The road became more dramatic as it wound its way down the coast but was mainly flat for the next 10 miles, only one or two hills getting in the way of a relatively flat day.  I rode through the unspectacular village of Rapahoe before carrying along the road inland along the seven mile road and past the town of Runanga.  I decided not to stop at either of these places for fear of losing my rhythm and this affecting my mileage for the day.  With all the stopping for photographs, snacks, occasional changing of music and general faffing, I often found myself eating up a lot of time just being stationary.  Again, I was in no rush, but I always felt my cycling was better if I had the chance to just focus on the road ahead and not on the myriad of distractions around me.  The road ahead began to swing westwards back towards the coast, avoiding the Rapahoe Range and following the path of the Greymouth River which would take into the town itself.  As I was heading along the flat roads into town I was noticing gradually an increase in traffic and the unwelcome return of the sorts of trucks that littered the road from Nelson to Murchiston.  This was combined with an incredible wind and made for a slightly challenging ride into town.  The wind, travelling from the western coast and funnelled down the Greymouth River, often threatened to knock me clean off the bike and I had to concentrate bloody hard to avoid this.

The road into Greymouth was quite busy, surprising considering the modest population of the town, and I found myself frustrated to suddenly be once again inconvenienced by traffic lights, stop signs and roundabouts.  I had made some good time that morning and I was hungry for lunch.  Now I would like to point out at this time that I think on the whole I ate quite well on the journey.  Some days I was pushing 50 miles a day and burning around 1500 calories.  I did rely quite heavily on fatty foods and it wasn't always easy finding healthy alternatives in the smaller settlements.  However I was now in a large town and didn't have any excuse but I still found myself locking the bike up in the car park of Greymouth McDonalds....  We all have our weaknesses...!

I must have started to look like quite a state as I waddled into the restaurant as I drew many curious looks from the clientele.  I ordered, grabbed my food and found a quiet corner in which to eat up.  I didn't often feel very out-of-place in my cycling get up but for some reason I suddenly felt very self conscious.  I was wearing a pair of functional baggy cycle shorts (as I couldn't bear the thought of walking into a town wearing tight-fitting lycra shorts....yuk) and my marmite cycle jersey plus bright red waterproof.  I sat and filled in my journal, music still blaring in my ears and finished my lunch.

Before leaving I had to visit the bathroom and as I was finishing up inside I was accosted by a chap who started asking me questions about my gear and my bike.  Now I was always told not to talk to strangers, especially strangers who start chatting to you in toilets, but I had lost my British-borne cynicism and engaged the man in conversation.  Turned out he was also a cycle tourer.  Turns out him, his wife and kids lived close by.  Turns out he was a bloody nice chap who offered a spare room to me.  Before I had a chance to protest he had rushed of the bathroom to find his wife and confirm my sleeping arrangement for the night.  A slight part of me was genuine in my protests; I didn't want to inconvenience anybody and I had only just made 30 miles in the day.  But after meeting the family, I could hardly turn up the opportunity to stay in a proper house and chat to some locals.  So with that I made arrangements with the Escott family and grabbed some groceries in town before making my way to their home.  So there we are boys and girls, there is a glorious life lesson for you: if anybody ever accosts you in a McDonalds bathroom and offers you a bed for the night, always say "yes".

The house was located just outside the town limits of Greymouth in a delightfully quiet road; the sort of road where children ride their bikes, people leave their cars unlocked and residents actually know their neighbours names.  I parked the bike up in the garage and was instantly leapt upon by the chap and his wife (let's call them Harry and Kim, as these are their names) to hang up and dry out my tent.  "Aha - these guys are pros" I thought, "they've done this before".  Turns out that Harry was originally from Newcastle and had a career as a professional boxer and runner before packing it all in and taking in the adventure cycling lifestyle.  Kim was a kiwi, originally from Dunedin on the East Coast, and worked as a locum GP and was currently based at a practise in Greymouth.  The house was supplied by Kim's work and so they were more than happy for me to throw my travel-weary body and belongings into one of the spare double rooms.  It was at this point I started to realise my good fortune; I had been approached completely at random, offered a comfortable place to stay and would get to spend the night with two of the nicest people I would meet on the trek.  It seemed to balance out my lack of success with using Couch Surfing earlier in the trip and I once again felt as if fate was shining down on me.  "Hmm....surely this good fortune cannot last" I thought.  There's that cynicism sneaking in again!

Feeling refreshed following my shower I sat down to dinner with Harry, Kim and their two young'uns Estella & Reuben.  Neither Harry nor Kim would accept my offer to help cook, clean or even accept a small amount to cover the food costs.  If hospitable were a word designed for two people it would be the Escott Family.  Turns out Team Escott had recently returned from a six month long cycle tour across Europe.  It made me realise quite how fortunate I was to be travelling so light when Kim informed me that both she and Harry would be carrying 80kg each (including children) on these treks.  80kg??  I was carrying 20kg and struggled to get up some of these hills.  Plus after 5 hours in the saddle I had only myself to feed and entertain, not two kiddy-winks both under the age of 5.  I was seriously impressed by the achievements of the whole family.  I had the impression that the kids would grow up with a sense of adventure, with feelings that nothing could possibly faze them.  What adventures they must have had already.  I felt insanely jealous of the family and considered my own life back in London, rapidly planning my next cycle tour in my head.

After the kids had been put to bed I settled down in the lounge and chatted further with Kim & Harry.  We chatted about bikes, about adventure, about running, about working and the weather and this beautiful country and before I knew it is was close to hitting 11pm.  My mind was really opened to the cycle touring world and I was blown away by how little seemed to faze these two.  Here they were with a young family, with bills to pay and with the endless responsibilities of parenthood ahead of them and they were happily looking to where they could cycle to next.  To where they might take their family and to where they might go to seek out a new adventure.  I felt inspired.  I had really enjoyed the feeling of being taken in to this family unit and was happy to be chatting away for many hours to a pair of native Kiwis (Harry now holding dual citizenship).  Retiring to bed, I grabbed a map and looked to where the next day would take me.  I believed myself to two day's ride away from the township of Franz Josef and the beginning of Glacier Country.  I would treat myself to a day off once I arrived there; this would be my first since arriving in the South Island.  However between Franz Josef and where I was lay a lot of tarmac, some gnarly climbs and a whole lot of empty space.  But after my rest stop in Greymouth and my chat with Team Escott, I felt like nothing was impossible.

Bike Day 15: Punakaiki to Greymouth

Trip Day 24
53.3 miles

Kim had left the house early to head down to work.  Harry was at home for the day looking after the kids and so I joined the three of them for breakfast.  I was keen to no longer burden my gracious hosts and so had hoped to leave the house early.  However I was more delayed than I had hoped.  Sitting chatting to Harry and drinking coffee I had noticed the time had crept past 10am.  Knowing that I had many lonely miles to cycle today I was keen to get out the of the house and so I bid farewell to my hosts and set out of the quiet street and out onto the main road south-bound.

The first twenty miles would be fast and flat as I would make my way to the small beachside town of Hokitika.  From there the road would continue flat for another few miles before cutting inland and slowly starting to climb through the hills towards the old gold mining town of Ross.  From there I would cycle the final 14 miles through hilly rainforest and into the tiny settlement of Pukekura where I would hope to find somewhere to pitch the tent.  There were no big hills today and I had a full belly courtesy of Team Escott so I was in good stead to make the most out of the day.  The only obstacle was the drizzle I would have to cycle through but I had my fingers crossed it would clear up before I got to Hokitika.

I should have know by now that it would require more than crossing my fingers to ensure good weather and I was rewarded for my naive superstition with heavy rain.  The ride to Hokitika, although flat, was completely sodden and the increased traffic out of Greymouth meant that on more than one occasion I found myself splashed and almost blown off the bike.  I found that most Kiwi drivers were courteous and would give me the space that I required and it tended to be the inexperienced tourists in the camper vans that would fail to give me enough room.  However today I must have attracted some of the more ignorant drivers, some of whom were driving big ol' sheep truck & trailers and I found myself being squeezed to the side of the narrow verge more and more.  This made for a harrowing ride as the rain began to absolutely lash it down.  Despite having a wonderful day's cycle the day before and a great night chatting to Kim and Harry, I suddenly found myself in a foul mood and after only around 10 miles in the rain I was cursing every truck that passed me by.  To say that the weather on the west coast was interchangeable would be the understatement of the bloody century.  It was so hard to predict and therefore plan what to do on a daily basis.

The road towards Hokitika was straight and relatively uninteresting.  The only thing of note was how the road and rail line would share a bridge when crossing the numerous rivers.  Without any signals to dictate when to slow down, it appeared to be a case of crossing your fingers and keeping an eye out for the train...  In this country right of way belonged to the biggest and heaviest road users and I was bottom of the pecking order.  I reached Hokitika after about 2 hours and 21 miles of cycling in the rain.  My first instinct was to find somewhere to get out of the rain.  I spotted the tourist centre on the way into town and immediately ducked in; my cold, sodden hands struggling to lock the bike.  I must have looked an absolute state as I waddled into the foyer of the tourist centre, my eyes desperately darting around the building for a bathroom to dry off in.  I had good fortune in a public bathroom the day before so perhaps I might find another kind soul who would offer me a bed?  No such luck on this occasion and so I had to be content with unceremoniously drying myself off underneath the hand driers.  Now if you were to google image search "Hokitika New Zealand" I imagine you would find photos of sunny beaches and crisp blue skies.  Sadly my impression will always be that Hokitika is simply the coldest and wettest town in the whole world.  Following a recommendation from the guys in the tourist centre I made my way to a cafe further in town to attempt to take something warm on board.  The Stella Cafe was a delightful establishment and I must have made an entertaining site as I slurped an oversized cup of black coffee and over-enthusiastically wolfed down a large plate of beans on toast.

The rain was not going to ease up any time soon so I redressed in my sodden waterproofs and got back on the bike.  Heading south, the road crossed over the grand Hokitika River and onto a 5 mile straight, flat section of road.  Still digesting, I got a reward of a fearsome headwind blown straight from the seafront and found my progress to be slowly quite severely.  With that the road cut inland and the headwind was replaced with undulating hills as I kissed goodbye to the coast and welcomed the thick trees and foliage of the New Zealand bush.  My spirits starting to sink slightly as my legs were really struggling to keep going and my mind was wandering away from the task at hand.  My boots were filled with water, my jacket soaked through and my legs were getting more sodden with every spin of the wheel.

The road took me to the small town of Ross; a former mining town whose claim to fame was the largest ever gold nugget found in NZ was discovered there.  Sadly this was another town that was unalterably affected in my own memory by the pouring rain.  I decided to stop briefly at one of the only buildings with a canopy that I was able to shelter under.  I went through the arduous process once more of stripping off my waterproofs and attempting to dry off slightly.  I ducked into the building, an old western-style tavern, and took a bar stool close to the fireplace.  This tavern advertised itself as a backpackers inn but, as a tourist, I was undoubtedly in the minority as I looked around at the other gentlemen that had taken shelter from the rain.  The tavern was certainly an interesting place with its bull horns mounted on the walls, old jukebox and piano in the corner and faded pool table completed with ripped surface.  When the bar lady replied to me and said their coffee machine was broken I though "fuck it" and ordered a beer.  I took out my journal and began to make a few notes of what a testing day it had been when I remembered what I had chatted with Kim and Harry about the night before.  I realised that although the road was wet and the skies were grey it was undoubtedly a beautiful day and the scenery was becoming more lush the further inland I went.  Soon I would be in glacier country where the landscape would become even more spectacular and I would have earned a good day off.  Whilst in Hokitika I had checked the weather forecast and the day I was due to arrive in Franz Josef township it was going to be a beautifully warm and sunny day, a rare thing in that part of the country.  This was no time to feeling sorry for myself.  I couldn't work out why but for some reason I was feeling all warm and fuzzy and didn't even notice the wet, and as I downed the remainder of the strong NZ ale I promised to buck up and enjoy every mile of this journey.  Clicking my heels I strode confidently back out into the rain and jumped onto the bike.

These final few miles of the day were hilly but they were also spectacular and as I made my way to the tiny settlement of Pukekura, I was passing through proper bush country.  Now you may believe that I am over exaggerating when I use the term "tiny settlement" but with a population of 6 people, Pukekura has the claim of being the smallest town in the whole of New Zealand.  I rolled past the sign declaring that I had officially entered the town and took the first left up to the only place to stay: the Pukekura Lodge.  I arrived and immediately took shelter underneath a canopy that covered the entrances to all five rooms of the lodge.  I leant the bike up against the fence, began to dry off and took a look around trying to find somewhere to check in.  A small blackboard leant up on a chair underneath the canopy declared all visitors to sit tight and wait for somebody to come by and let them in.  In the meantime I was instructed to make myself comfortable in the communal .  Not wanting to disobey the blackboard I made my way inside and made friends with the couple who were already inside.  Lev and Katie were a pair from Israel who were currently on a round the world backpacking journey that had taken them from Central America through South East Asia, Australia, Fiji and now New Zealand.  They commented on how wet I was and offered to make me a cup of tea.  Never has a man needed a cup of tea more than I did at the precise moment so I happily took them up on their kind offer.

After a while a few more adventurers turned up and joined the three of us for two.  I got chatting to a pair of young German backpackers and a Canadian couple who were making a similar journey to mine (albeit in a car) and gave me some advice as to what lay ahead.  Eventually we were joined by the owner of the lodge, a mad-eyed and bearded but very friendly chap who came round to let us all in.  He commented on how wet I was (very astute, people in these parts...) and asked if I was planning on camping.  With the sound of the rain getting heavier in the background I made my best puppy-dog eyes and asked if he had a room left over.  I was in luck; he had one more double-room left.  Result.  I barely winced at the $45 cost for the evening - it was well worth it.  The owner left briefly and returned with some of his leftover dinner; a meaty stew which he handed over to me.  "You look like you need it" he said.  Another example of genuine kiwi hospitality and I almost felt bad when I explained how I was veggie.  I donated his kind offer over to one of the German girls and went about making my pasta concoction.

I spent the evening chatting away to the rest of the guys staying overnight.  Most of the guys were sleeping in their cars and campers and so I almost felt a bit spoilt for my private double room.  Not that I cared one bit.  I had plenty of time ahead of me to camp in the wet and I appreciated my fortune at once again finding a double bedroom all to myself.  I said goodbye to my fellow travellers and excused myself to retire for the evening.  That's the wonderful thing about New Zealand; with the number of people in camper vans and in old cars and on heavily-laden bicycles, it almost seems like everybody in this country was on an adventure.  Every person you met in the campsites and hostels and lodges had a story to tell and an experience to share.  I was getting used to this adventuring malarkey; I was starting to be able to share my own experiences and offer my own advice to people heading to the North.  If I could have shared one piece of advice it would be this: if it looks like it's going to rain, don't bother cycling.  It's a very, very silly idea.

Days 10-12: Richmond-Motupiko-Murchison-Westport

Direct address to my readers:

As many of you who have been keeping up with my journey will have noticed I have found myself a little behind in my blog keeping.  Indeed as I write this entry I am at the terminus of my journey and preparing to return home to the UK.

You may think then, "Well what's the point in reading on if we know the bastard has made it to the end?  Where's the drama and the intrigue and the excitement if the ending is just to spoiled in this way?"  And you'd be right to have these slightly irrational feelings.

It has not been an easy task for me to keep up whilst simultaneously putting in the miles, making meal stops, finding accommodation and sheltering from the rain (more on the rain part later...).  That combined with the fact I am writing these blog posts using a humble Samsung Galaxy S6 phone with an unstable auto-correct feature has slowed me right down.  For any of you who know me well, you will also be aware of the chronic laziness that I have forever been afflicted...that doesn't help either.

Finally, I have decided to record several of my journey days into one entry rather than create a unique blog post for each day.  This should speed up the writing and hopefully create a quality control process whereby I am not wasting words describing every yard travelled, every calorie consumed and every bead of sweat excreted.  Of course those of you who might be interested in such nonsense please feel free to contact me directly and I'll be sure to bore you to death with the intricate details.

So anyway where were we?  Oh yes.  Last time I chatted with you I had just completed Day 9 on the bike; a hilly journey through Nelson District and had just descending through Nelson Township itself and into a campground in the small settlement of Richmond.  Are we all sitting comfortably?  Then let us begin.


Bike Day 10: Richmond to Motupiko

Trip Day 19

30.07 miles

I awoke to a hot tent.  Gasping for air I pulled open the tent entrance to allow some cooler air to circulate.  As I rose to my feet I had a slight pain in my upper back; perhaps from an ill advised sleeping position and/or the hard ground below, although this was enough of a reminder that I must take care of myself if I am to prosper on this trip.  I had brought with me on this trip a compact, inflatable mattress on loan from a friend which, much to my displeasure, I had found to be broken and leaking.  I discovered this on my first night camping (at Huntly Motor Camp, of course) and since then had either forgotten or deemed it unnecessary to replace.  Sleeping on the hard ground was perhaps not one of my smartest ideas on the trip but I'd at least saved a kilogram or two on the back of the bike...

My route for the day would see me making some real headway West through the Tasman district of NZ and closer to the West Coast.  Once I had hit the coast I would the continue to follow the same road South before cutting in land once more towards the town of Queenstown.  This was a long way away and I had to get the coast first so saddled up and was ready to go.  Frustratingly I had two choices for the day: either it would be a simple 30 mile ride to a campsite in the small area known as Motupiko, or a much longer journey inland to the town of Murchison.  At this point I was still not brave enough to tackle a long day in saddle, especially considering the peaks I had braved the previous day.  Although slightly frustrated with myself, I decided to have another short day and clear it to Motupiko and the campsite known as Quinney's Bush Camp.

After a stop off in town for some more supplies I finally made my way back onto the road and set on my way.  The road today was more merciful on my tired legs and I was soon on another fabulous cycle track taking me off of the busy main road and deeper into the Tasman forests.  Sadly for me the cycle path ended after only a few miles and I was unceremoniously dumped onto the state highway to continue my journey, dodging the trucks and heavy tourist traffic.  It turns out that the Canadian couple that I had met in Wellington were correct about the increased traffic between Nelson and Christchurch.  I had another 2 days cycle before I reached the junction where the trucks would eventually turn off and take the road South.  For now, I was stuck alongside them and I was briefly reminded of my short stay on SH1 back in Huntly *shudder*.

To this point the Nelson area had seemed quite proud of its cycle paths and I must admit that I was impressed by the lanes I had ridden on and wanted to spend more time away from the main roads.  I'll level with you for a moment here, my readers: I hadn't spent much time on the famous NZ cycle trails and on numerous occasions I had made the conscious decision to take the busier, paved roads.  There were two mains factors for this decision: Firstly, I was taking this journey on a touring road bike rather than a mountain bike and secondly, I was absolutely paranoid about damaging the bike and being forced to push the bike and gear up and over many miles of gravel or dirt paths.  However I was feeling more devil-may-care today and so when I noticed a sign for the "Great Taste Trail" I decided to wheel away from the main road and check it out.  After all, what's the worst that could happen, right?  Right?

The trail started nicely and was a sealed, surfaced road that dashed alongside the main highway but shortly I noticed it begin to turn off to the left and into the hilly, forested area due South of the main road.  I spotted a car parked to the side of this trail; its driver, a middle-aged gent, loading his family's bikes onto the back of the car.  I asked him and the family what the trail was like and whether I would be able to tackle it.  The gent looked at my road frame, skinny tires, skinnier legs and overburdened rack and gave me a look that suggested he was trying to let me down easy.  I must have inadvertently given him the puppy dog eyes when he eventually looked up at me because he informed that, although it would be tough on a road bike, it was perfectly doable.  He told me that there was a sharp climb before a trail downhill where the route would follow the old train tracks through a long tunnel.  Ooh.  I like a good tunnel.  I was sold.  I started the ascent up the trail, stopping to awkwardly get my bike through the kissing gate up ahead, and waved goodbye to the chap.  I was looking forward to this.  After all, without this detour I was barely going to cover 30 miles today.

The ascent started nicely and soon leveled out until I was riding alongside a shallow valley, a great view over the surrounding farmland and forest greeting me as I did.  Several cyclists, all on mountain bikes, regarded my ride with curious eyes and waved as they passed.  After another half an hour, the route became quieter and I soon found myself looking at a steep incline with the road surface becoming more uneven.  Where was this great descent and rail tracks I had been promised earlier?  This must have been the steep incline the gent had mentioned previously and the track must be over the otherside of the hill.  Surely.  The paper map I was carrying did not show this section of the track and I was unable to get a signal on my phone to check Google Maps.  I was just going to go for it; I was sure that one session of orienteering we were made to do at Junior School would kick in and I would be able to Bear Grylls my way through this situation.  Sadly for me the track become more and more unmanageable and I fear that the deeper gravel and steep incline would result in a fall.  Something I was not prepared to do so far from the main road.  Sadly, and not for not the first time, I dismounted the bike and pushed it up the hill.  Slowly but surely, the route became harder to push up.  My arms ached, the surrounding foliage became thicker and more vicious with brambles beginning to appear, grabbing at my ankles as I struggled.  Sweating and cursing I continued to push uphill past one false summit after another.  Eventually I reached the top of the trail and looked down over the summit of the trail to the thick pine forest below.  What a view.  I still had no idea where I was or where to go next but at least I was at the top.  I took on some water, had a bite of cereal bar and breathed, happy that I now only had to make a short descent back to the road.  My luck appeared to have changed.  Then it started to rain.

I took a few obligatory photos of the surrounding forests and hills and one or two sweaty selfies (see images below for proof of perspiration).  I was relieved and happy to be up and over the crest of this unexpected obstacle but I was also keen to remain as dry as possible.  I threw on my waterproof jacket, waterproof trousers, waterproof socks and pedalled in the general direction of the main road.  The rain was really started to come down heavily and before long I was getting wet.  The wonderful thing about waterproofs is no matter how much you spend, you're going to get wet after a certain amount of time.  I would find this out later in the trip that, no matter how much waterproofing you do, 6 hours in the saddle in the pouring rain will get you a little damp.  Nil Desperandum.  I set off down the track.  Initially the surface was a horrible hybrid of partial tarmac and light gravel; lulling me into a false sense of security before forcing me to focus on my front wheel.  It was a new experience to have to be focussing on the road surface the entire time but at least it was keeping me engaged.  Soon the road turned swiftly north-bound and turned into an aggressively-steep descent down, what I can only assume to be, a mountain bike track.  Again, super-fun but I had to stop a few times to retrieve some items which had been flung from the back of the rack as I made the bumpy descent.  Word of advice for any potential cycle-tourers out there: when in doubt, check a bloody map.  Not sure I would recommend tackling a mountain bike track with a fully-laden touring road bike in the rain but, truth be told, it was great fun.

I exited the trail through a car park, much to the amusement of some logging workers who pointed and laughed at me as I soggily wheeled out onto the highway.  The remainder of the journey to my campsite was comparatively uneventful, save for one quick rest stop in a roadside cafe in a foolish attempt to wait out the rain.  After another hour or so I wheeled into Quinney's Bush Camp, a large motor camp ground and activity park.  I had done a bit of research and learnt that the camp ground boasted a host of amenities for all the family: water slides, dirt bike track, swimming, playground etc.  I decided I would skip taking a dip in the river once I arrived at a very soggy and grey campground.

The campground was the only site in the immediate area and so I was paying a premium $18 for the privilege of pitching the tent in this quagmire.  Frustrated with the day, I grumpily set up my tent and scurried to the camp kitchen to dry my clothing and belongings.  As anybody who has camped during the great British summer will tell you, it's next to impossible to dry out your belongings whilst camping in the rain.  I did my best to locate anywhere to hang my coat, jersey and socks but it was no use; I was just going to have to man up and accept the fact that adventure would not always provide me with perfect weather conditions.  And on the plus side I had managed to stock up on supplies whilst staying in Richmond and had my newly-purchased cooking set to make myself an appetising pasta/tomato soup/tuna meal.  I received a mixture of admiration and horror from my fellow diners as I shared my story of the day.  Many of the people staying here were older couples seeing the country from the relative luxury of a camper van.  One couple in particular had decided to spend a day at the camp ground as they didn't want to drive in the rain.  Wimps.  Tomorrow, I was informed, would be another day of heavy rain.  Gulp.

Tomorrow I would tackle a slightly longer day and attempt to reach the town of Murchison.  A small village by British standards but a veritable metropolis containing several campgrounds, shops, launderette and pub.  With the rain slamming down against the tent, I fell into a restless sleep considering how much damper I would become on my journey.

Bike Day 11: Motepiku to Murchison
Trip Day 20
44.88 miles

I awoke several times in the night with a horrible realisation.  My sleeping bag was wet.  Scrambling around in the dark for a light I felt water on the outside of the sleeping bag as well as on the floor of my tent.  Feeling around to the roof of the tent I realised that water was somehow coming in from the small ventilation mesh at the top of the inner tent.  To my horror I realised that I had forgotten to tie down the outer flap which protected this mesh.  Springing to my feet (or as much as one can in a small two person tent) I put on my waterproofs and clumsily exited the tent into the deluge outside.  In the dark I was able to tie down the guy ropes, thus sealing the mesh and hopefully ensuring a drier night's sleep.  Back into the tent I surveyed the water damage.  All electronics had been put into my waterproof handlebar bag and the sleeping bag wasn't as wet as I initially thought.  I had been lucky but I still cursed myself at this rookie mistake.  Sir Edmund Hillary wouldn't have made that mistake would he, Josh?  No he wouldn't.  I fell back asleep soon after and prepared myself for the next day.

Looking back to my first rainy day at Tongariro Lodge it now occured to me that although I arrived at the campsite during a downpour, the following morning it was a beautiful day.  That morning at Quinney's it was still pouring down with rain when it was time to pack down the tent and my gear.  After breakfast I set about packing down my campsite in as hasty a manner as I could muster.  I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about soaking my gear, especially my already-moist sleeping bag, and so frantically set about getting myself ready to leave.  I wasn't in particularly high spirits that morning.  My progress through the South Island was slower than I had hoped, I had taken an ill-advised diversion the day previous and now I was wet and cold.  I reminded myself of where I was and what an amazing time I was having and pulled myself onto the bike and out of the camp ground.

The bike was holding up well after its off-road experience the day before and I was beginning to feel more comfortable with the heavy load on the back.  It's a strange experience carrying such a heavy burden on the back of a delicate, two-wheeled vehicle and I was astounded at how much I was getting used to the weight and handling.  Don't get me wrong, hills were still a pain in the backside and any time I attempted to rest off the bike the front wheel would often spin round on itself and threaten to topple the whole bike.  However I was starting to enjoy the feeling of being on the bike, even if the weather was doing everything in its power to dampen my spirits.

I continued west-bound on the main highway out of Motupiko and into forests of the Tasman region.  The road ran parallel to the Motupiko River and I noticed a steady climb out of the valley and into the hills ahead.  Looking back now I realise that the road was going to dissect the hills of the Hope Range; my ignorance that day due to the lack of WiFi at the campsite.  The road began to get steeper and before long I was tackling a short steep climb up and over Hope Saddle itself.  I can't lie to you, it was a pretty miserable experience as the increased effort lead to a high body temperature and high perspiration.  Combined with the rain and the fact I was wearing a hooded waterproof jacket and before long it felt like I was riding in a wearable-sauna (trademark Yard by Yard Industries 2017).  The occasional cars, campers and trucks that passed offered little room as I struggle up the side of the road, attempting to keep within the meagre shoulder.

Luckily the climb was not overly long as I was soon as the lookout point of Hope Saddle.  I got myself to the lookout and took shelter underneath a wooden gazebo.  I was out of the rain temporarily but still soaking wet.  I took most of my layers off, to the amusement of others who had stopped here, and hastily made myself a sandwich in an attempt to stave off my growing hunger.  For those of you who have cycled with me before you will know of course that it was a Marmite and cheese sandwich; a concoction that I still attest to be the greatest snack available for a cyclist.  I got chatting to one or two travellers who had also taken a break at the lookout, regarding their motorised vehicles with envious eyes.  I had dried out as much as I possibly could and so there was nothing more to be done than to tackle the descent.  The rain had began to die down and so I was hopeful that I would experience drier weather for the rest of the day.  Naive fool.

With the increased standing water on the roads the descent was not quite as fast as I had hoped, my hands tightly gripped onto the brakes as they were.  Much to my delight however I noticed that, after the initial descent from the Hope Saddle, the road was continuing to go downhill for many miles.  I felt as if my luck was changing and I was really enjoying the new change of pace as the road continued to slope downhill.  But fate has an usual way of rewarding me after completing a tough start to the day and once more the heavens opened and dampened my ambitions of riding in a dry afternoon.  In comparison to the weather I was about to experience, the morning's downpour was merely a drop in the ocean.  I can safely say that I have never experienced rain like that that I experienced on my trip from Hope Saddle to Murchison.

The rain was vicious.  Malicious even.  It was rain that was born with the single intent of ruining my afternoon.  I felt personally targeted by this freak downpour.  Somebody somewhere in a distant plane of existence had decided to literally make it rain on my parade.  The downpour sent me slightly loopy; soon I was singing along to the music in my ears and greeting every splash from passing cars with an enthusiastic holler.  Every pedal stroke filled my shoes with more water until I felt like I was wearing a portable footbath (TM Yard by Yard Industries).  The rain somehow dripped down the back of the neck, bypassing the tight seal I had made with the hood of my waterproof.  Thanks to the superior craftsmanship of my panniers and handlebar bag, my gear was safe and dry.  I on the other hand was damp and starting to go a little crazy.

I stopped briefly on one of the downhills at a small tavern/motel for a cup of Earl Grey and a Devonshire scone (when in NZ, eh...?).  The tavern was a gloriously decorated Southern NZ affair declaring a love for all things rural and farming-based.  I resisted the urge to partake in a pint of Speights (NZ's most popular lager, brewed in Dunedin) and instead dried out as best I could and enjoyed a nice little sit down.  I continued to put together my thoughts in my journal without resorting to scribbling the words: "Bloody hell" "It's wet" and "why did I come here" like some sort of deranged madman.

I continued downhill with the rain lashing at my face before the road levelled out and before long I was cycling through the valley alongside the famous Buller River.  As the road levelled out I was hit with a furious side wind that occasionally threatened to push me clean off my bike and into a ditch but I fortunately was able to regain control.  I rolled the remaining 10 miles until I saw the signs for the Murchison campground.  As I rode towards the turnoff I made a mental note of quite how wet and knackered I was and recollected my damp night in the tent at Quinney's.  This was one of the moments on the trip when I decided to take a more luxurious option and cycled into the town in an attempt to find a hostel.  Murchison itself was a delightful small town that served as a rest point for travellers coming from Nelson in the east to the coast in the west.  I spotted an information site and ditched the bike underneath a small awning as I scanned a notice board for a list of accommodation in the area.  I saw advertisement for the Lazy Cow backpackers just 100m down the street and I remounted my bike and pedalled in that direction, praying for a vacancy.

The decision to stay at the Lazy Cow after such a wet day was one of the finest decisions I made the entire trip.  After two wet days and with my clothing now mainly consisting of rainwater, the prospect of a warm bed, laundry facilities and pizzeria close by made the Lazy Cow seem like a paradise.  Some may scoff at the idea that a shared dorm room in a small hostel in rural NZ is luxury accommodation but for me, this was a perfect place to stay.  Lazy Cow turned out to be one of my favourite hostels of the trip due to its small size, relaxed nature and excellent facilities.  There was free cake for crying out loud, how can you not be happy with that?  After showering and throwing a load into the drier I made my way across the street to the shop to grab some supplies (correction: beer).  As I returned I noticed a familiar cycle in the driveway and made my way back to the hostel's common room.  There I bumped into my old friend from Tongariro, Julie the French cycle tourer!  I hadn't expected to bump into her again as she was going to be taking a route north from Nelson into Abel Tasman National Park.  Somehow she had managed to make this diversion and still find me here, completing a 70 mile journey to get to Murchison.  I decided not to tell her of the relatively short days I had completed and reminded myself that it was possible to push myself for longer stretches.

I spent the evening dry, warm and happy.  I chatted to Julie and a Swiss cycle tourists by the name of Jens about our various trips and the next stages of the journey.  We were all heading west to the coast and then south from there.  There was a rough agreement that we would take the same road and perhaps ride together for some of the journey.  Having already found out how early they were both planning on leaving I thought this a slightly optimistic idea but entertained it nonetheless as I downed my beer and tucked into my pizza.

Tucked into my bed on the bottom bunk in the dorm room, I considered how much damper the next few weeks were likely to get.  I was warned of the increased rain on the west coast and so was likely to hit one or two more days like today.  I didn't care.  I was warm and cosy and I had had a great evening chatting away.  I was inspired by Julie and Jens to attempt some longer distances and make the most of my days here.  Tomorrow, I decided, I would smash out a 60 mile day and reach the coast and the town of Westport.


Bike Day 12: Murchison to Westport
Trip Day 21
60 miles

My alarm sounded early and I leapt from my bed.  Julie and Jens were already in the process of preparing themselves and looked set to be out the day way before me.  I wished them both good luck and hoped to see them again on the trip at some point.  Allowing them this headstart, I packed my now-dry gear and prepared for my day ahead.  Looking at the map it appeared that the road would be cutting west, playfully running alongside the Buller River and gorge before exiting into the north-west at the small town of Westport.  I decided this would be the best place to aim for and so I took to the saddle and began to pedal.

The day was bright and calm; a welcome relief from the previous day's battle through the tempest.  The road ahead would be undulating and would pass through one or two small settlements en route to my final destination at Westport.  It would be by no means an easy day but, according to the ever-changing forecast, we were due a dry day and the cycle was due to be spectacular.  All the heavy traffic from Picton was due to turn South just after Murchison; I was happy to have a bit more of the road to myself and felt more confident tackling the hills without the threat of a heavy traffic behind me.  The forecast held true and for the first few miles I was making good headway, enjoying the feeling of being in the saddle after such a challenging day previous.  It's amazing how the state of the weather can put any cyclist (or perhaps just me) in such contrasting moods; a wet day full of hills and headwinds can feel like hell-on-Earth but a ride in a warm sunny day through good scenery is one of the greatest feelings imaginable.

As promised the road consisted of various undulations but none too challenging on the legs.  The road was running alongside the Buller River and gorge and so made for some beautiful and dramatic riding; the road frequently taking narrow one-lane bridges over the river.  The downhills at times cut a steep path and I was hitting some very quick speeds; my over-indulgence on the brakes beginning to fade as the roads began to dry.  I stopped momentarily at a DOC campsite for a quick sandwich and drink.  With the close proximity of the river I was soon set upon by the eternal irritant, the sandfly.  Whilst batting these nuisances away I started chatting to another pair of cycle tourists - a young Japanese couple.  In broken English they explained that they were heading west before cutting south to Reefton.  They set off ahead of me as I waved them away.  Second breakfast consumed and sandflies mostly avoided, I continued on my way.

Another 5 miles passed and I was coming up to the settlement of Inangahua Junction where the east-west route would come across the south-bound road to Reefton.  I had my largest of the climbs of the day under my belt, perhaps a mile or so back, and was feeling confident about my riding for the day.  As I rounded the corner I came into a clearing with a long, straight incline ahead.  As I began my ascent I spotted something just up the hill that released all of my smugness in one go; fellow cycle tourists pushing their bikes up the road.  I'm not necessarily the most competitive of people but the sight of fellow cyclists pushing up this moderate incline spurred me to keep in my own saddle.  As I passed I saw that it was the young Japanese couple from earlier.  I shouted encouragement as I passed them and continued over the top and down the other side.  I prayed that I didn't get a puncture or mechanical problem as payment for my smugness but fortunately my ride to Inangahua Junction was free of problems.

Since Richmond I had been following a suggested itinerary that somebody had published online.  The itinerary went as far down as Queenstown and, although I was loathe to follow another person's suggested journey, it did give an excellent indication of all upcoming settlements, shops and accommodation.  The itinerary suggested stopping for lunch at a small cafe in Inangahua Junction.  With no other options close by I decided to take the advice and pulled by bike into the forecourt of this gas station/cafe.  Not being overly hungry I just grabbed a bowful of sweet potato wedges and a Coke.  I got chatting to the owners, a middle-aged kiwi couple, who gave me advice about the route and where to go once I hit the west coast.  As she brought out my wedges, one of the owners whether I had been caught in "that storm" yesterday.  She told me that a metre of rain had fallen over the course of a few hours in the afternoon and that that was particularly unusual for this region.  I felt a little vindicated by this question as I was beginning to worry that I was being overly dramatic for what could have been a usual weather condition in this part of NZ.  It certainly felt like I had cycled through a metre of rainwater.

I cleaned the plate up and pushed on to the last 25 miles of the day.  By this point I had completed 35 miles and so was on point to complete my longest day since the second day of the cycle.  I was also due to climb the most number of feet since the day I cycled to Rotorua.  A big day ahead essentially.  Again, if anybody is seriously interested in the statistics then give me a shout and I will send you the most boring excel spreadsheet imaginable....  As I was traversing alongside a particularly glorious part of the road, I remembered something that the bloke back at Inangahua Junction had told me.  After informing him of how beautiful I thought the south island to be he told me to "forget everything you've seen so far.  It gets more beautiful from here on in."  This excited me; I was already blown away with this landscape and what I had seen up to this point.  I knew I still had the west coast, glacier country and the southern lakes to enjoy but it still amazed me that this man considered our current surroundings to be drab and boring in comparison.

Before long I was climbing my final ascent out of the forest, the river now far behind me, and as I crested the final hill I came out into the flatlands.  I had passed through the forest and was now into a clearing and staring down the road towards Westport and the west coast.  Looking at my cycle computer I still had around 6 miles to go before I hit the centre of Westport but I was beyond excited to have done over 50 miles through that terrain.  My legs were tired, my stomach screaming at me but I knew I was close to a good night's rest.  I had briefly scouted ahead and knew that I had no real viable options for camping and so took a chance and phoned ahead to a small surfing hostel in the centre of town.  They confirmed my booking and I wheeled my way down to the high street of Westport towards my accommodation.

Westport itself is a fairly unremarkable town of just over 6,000 people.  For such a small population it certainly has a wide selection of amenities but it felt a little too far away from the typical tourist route to reap the benefits of passing coaches and camper vans. Many signs encouraged me to grab my surfboard and head down to the beach but with the skies darkening and the temperature dropping, I politely declined. I checked into a relaxed hostel and stocked up for dinner; turns out my light lunch was not enough and I treated myself to a heavy dinner.

The last few days had been tough and tiring but it didn't matter; I was on the west coast and would soon be passing through some terrific scenery. I couldn't wait to get out there and see it all. Plus it surely couldn't get any wetter could it?