2 days in Rotorua

Today was a new day and a few days off the bike. I was ready to rest my legs and enjoy myself in what is the North Island's adrenaline centre.

Up early and straight to the tourist info centre to work out what on Earth I was going to do for two days. The list was endless; a whole multitude of ways to injure or hurt myself before continuing on my trek. I could go down a waterfall in a raft, I could throw myself out of an airplane, I could build myself alive in the local thermal hot springs. Decisions decisions. However there was one activity I had promised myself I would not miss out on. When I was in Matamata I was aware of the close proximity of the Hobbiton movie set. I had promised myself that when I reached Rotorua I would fully geek out and go and see the set. Booked for that afternoon.

I had a few hours to spare and, with my hostel being and 20 minute walk out of town I decided to take a stroll through the town of Rotorua. All I knew of this town is that people had told me that I needed to visit. I could see why. Rotorua was very much the nerve centre of the adrenaline activity scene in central North Island. It was placed on the shores of a beautiful lake and had frequent thermal hot spring activity to boot. I was looking forward to spending some time off the bike but equally keen to not lose focus on the number of miles still to go.

Later that day and I was standing outside the Hobbiton tourist office waiting for my shuttle with the other excited tourists. A large group of older American tourists chatted excitedly to my left; although their excitement seemed on the difference in farming techniques between New Zealand and their native Georgia, rather than on seeing this Tolkien-esque mecca. The bus arrived and we were herded on by the driver; a man with a glorious white handlebar moustache and tanned leathery skin. Danny the driver chatted to us over the tannoy, referred to us as "hobbits" and generally got the excitement levels raised. Legend. His banter distracted me enough that I barely realised I was heading back towards Matamata; a place that had taken me two days to cycle from.

Hobbiton itself was a remarkably well-run attraction that was able to limit the number of tourists due to its remote location. Although we were on a guided tour and not free to roam, the experience never felt crowded or contrived of atmosphere. Even if I did have to listen to the Americans asking the tour guide about the irrigation methods in the surrounding farmland. A quick ale at the Green Dragon Inn (nerd-gasm!) and we were set to head back to the tourist centre. On the bus on the way back I got chatting to a Swiss backpacker by the name of Markus. A very nice chap, we spoke of our travel routes throughout the country, of our experiences thus far and eventually moved onto to European politics and the rise of isolationism in our two countries. Fascinating stuff. We promised to keep and touch and I would hopefully bump into him again.

That night was spent doing laundry #rocknroll and repacking the panniers. I ventured into the hostel's courtyard ready to cook up my cycle touring dinner (instant noodles, veg, bread etc) and finally sat down to dinner in the communal eating area. Up until this point I had not had too much contact with other travellers as I would be too busy with the bike and planning for the next day's route. I had two more nights at this hostel so decided to attempt to make some new friends. Got chatting to a Kiwi guy, two Germans, a Brazilian and a lass from Derbyshire. Inevitably the conversation turned towards travel and the routes to take from here South. A few beers and a few games of cards later and I was in full-on social mode. I had successfully transitioned from mad, sunburnt and antisocial cycle bloke. Winner. I also got chatting to a German girl who was also touring the country via bicycle. She had come South to North and was averaging 60 miles a day. I tactically avoided telling her of my pitiful attempt to cross the Coromandels and instead asked her about the route. She told me a great deal of info that I already knew and one piece that I suspected; there was not a great deal of anything between Taupo and Wellington.

I had worked out a pretty loose route when I came to New Zealand. Any of you who read my first post may have noticed a Google Maps image of a route through both islands. This was very much a guess and I had already deviated severely from that route. Even with this most rough of ideas, however, the route from Taupo to Wellington had not been plotted in any great detail. I considered how to bridge this gap, thanked the German cyclist and got back to cards. I retired early to bed and promised to get in touch with my new friends after they had gone south to Taupo. For now, it was time to sleep.

The second day I was up and straight down to the tourist info. Oh did I forget to mention? I had booked white water rafting as my next port of call. I've always had a desire to do white water sports. Two years earlier I had taken a trip to the Verdon Gorge with my dearest chums and done some kayaking and water trekking down the rapids of this beautiful region. I loved it and, with the exception of one particularly miserable kayak-instructor, had had a great time. White water rafting was something different; you had to be part of a team team of do it well. I boarded the minibus at the tourist info point and was on my to the river.

At the rafting site we were introduced to our rafting instructors. The instructors were a group of stereotypical Kiwi adventure sporting types; loose fitting vest tops, backward caps, crap tattoos, punctuating every direct sentence with "bru". Loved it. Jolly nice chaps, bru. Into the rubber gimp, sorry, wet suits and to the river we went. I had a vision of taking an adrenaline-fuelled trip downstream, high-fiving my fellow-rafters and perhaps letting out an uncharacteristic "righteous" or "sweet rapids, bro." I soon had this frankly-preposterous vision interrupted when I was put into the same vessel as a young family from New Caledonia who spoke very little English. "Dammit" I thought, "I don't know the French for "righteous" ".

As our instructor didn't speak French, I took the mantle of interpreter and stretched the limits of my B grade in GCSE French and we set off downstream. Somebody remind me when I get home to look up the French verb "to paddle". Despite my initial skepticism it was an absolute blast and me and my adopted "familie" had an awesome time. At one point flying over the side of a 7m waterfall; during which I'm pretty sure I took half of the river directly up through my nose. Must remember to exhale before descending if I do it again.

Post-rafting I got back into Rotorua and headed back to the hostel to deposit of my gear. I had every intention of heading back into town to grab some lunch but the rafting had really taken it out of me. Waking after my hour-long nap I cursed myself for wasting the day by resting up, shortly before falling asleep again. the rafting had really taken it out of me. Perhaps it was a combination of the entire trip - I don't think I had had a day where I was not out-of-breath or being active since I arrived there.

Refreshed from my impromptu siesta I headed back into town to pick up food supplies, pop into a local bike shop and beg for a few spare screws (having lost one of my rack screws on only the first day on the road) and grab one final beer. Drinking out here was expensive, but I was one thing I was missing from back home; communal drinking...

My two days off in Rotorua had been a blast. It was a genuinely nice town and it was worth the hype; I was glad I had cycled up the hills to get here. But I was also keen to get back on the bike; I had missed being in the saddle and living the day one mile at a time. Tomorrow I would head south to the equally-scenic town of Taupo, a ride of about 50 miles. I had tackled some big climbs and done some good miles already; I was ready to get further south and get into the mountainous centre of the North Island. But for now, it was time for sleep. I hadn't done enough sleeping for one day, after all.