Diane's Visit, Part 2

My Friends-

I’ve read that John McCain has been advised not to say “My Friends” so much in his speeches. That’s good news, because I’m running out of salutations and have shied away from using that one, due to him. What a ghoul.

I’m writing this from my favorite backpackers lodge in New Plymouth, the one in a big, old house. It is run by a group of women of a certain age, and their sensibilities permeate the place. Porcelain statuettes of shepherds and maidens share space with cricket trophies in cut-glass cabinets. Knit cozies cover the arms of floral-print couches. When you sit down in the sunroom on a nice afternoon, you raise a soothing cloud of dust motes. The entire setting is permeated by the ever-present music- an ancient tube console hi-fi with the bass-heavy tone of a jukebox, set to an oldies station. It always seems to be playing a song by Roy Orbison… although actually, it runs down the AM top forty from the fifties through the seventies, so the playlist is great:

Get Down (Gilbert O’Sullivan)
Angel of the Morning (Mary McCaslin)
Snowbird (Anne Murray)
Wild One (Cliff Richards)
The Lonely Bull (Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass)
Baby I Need Your Lovin” (The Four Tops)
A Single Girl (Sandy Posey)
I Only Want To Be With You (Dusty Springfield)
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (Joan Baez)
We’ll Sing in the Sunshine (Gale Garnett)
In The Ghetto (Elvis Presley)
The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (Gene Pitney)
Young Love (who did this? Help me out here.)

The place is literally “chintzy”, and mildly, pleasantly suffocating, like being over-dressed for the cold by your mother.

When I describe this atmosphere to my friends here, they all say, “That sounds horrible”. I dunno… I guess I see something here that I like. Like Jonathan Richmond, I’m still in love with the old world.


As tranquil as Waihi Beach had been, Diane and I were eager to move on and see more. We performed what was to become our drill- she brought the luggage to the car (an absurd amount of stuff that included two guitars, my surfboard, my box with my computer and field recorder, a box of books, two boxes of food, a cooler ("chilly bin"), her rather large sleeping bag, my smaller one, a tent, her purse and my bag and the always-front-and-central snack bag) which I made fit- a jigsaw puzzle three feet deep. We rolled back onto the highway. Something about the landscape here (the lower Coromandal range) really captivated Diane- she would later say it was the most beautiful of the trip.

Diane had come here dreaming of a few particular things- wine tasting, hot springs, and idyllic vacation cabins (with en suite bathrooms, please). We decided to go to Hawke’s Bay, on the lower east coast next, where we could find all those things. We made reservations in an obscure little place (town? hamlet?) called Morere, halfway between Gisborne and Napier, which, we read in our Rough Guide, had a hot spring. We took a chance it would be a good place, and booked two nights.

The drive was one of the longer ones we made, but fun. We talked and listened to music and ate snacks all down the highway along the placid, shimmering Bay of Plenty. We headed inland to the Raukumara Mountains, the range that separates the two coasts. The drive was beautiful and rural, the day pleasant and sunny. I recall being caught behind a huge truck that was transporting sheep. I chose not to tell Diane that the fine spray that began to obscure the windshield was agitated sheep urine.

I was proud of Herbert for getting up and over the crest of that mountain range! Heading down the far side toward Gisborne, we pulled over to take pictures. Diane took this picture. Note the left-lane driving position, and, if you click on the photo and enlarge it, the herds of sheep grazing into vanishing points…



It’s all beautiful, but the Gisborne side of the drive is particularly stunning.



We got to Gisborne, a charming city (with really good surf, too) but I’m afraid our main impression was that we were ravenously hungry, and nothing was open! We finally found a fish-and-chips place that did the trick (to a fault), and, with night falling, continued on to mysterious Morere.

“This can’t be it”, Diane fretted. We were on a bumpy gravel road, our headlights illuminating a low concrete bridge barely a foot above the black waters of a rushing stream. We had followed the directions properly, we thought, but I wasn’t too sure myself. Braving the bridge, we bumped along until we saw a house across a dark, wet field. As I got out, something low and fast ran toward me- a delightful little friendly dog, jumping up and licking my hands. Wait- Ugh! A foul-smelling, absolutely rank little friendly dog, that ran ahead of me excitedly as I made my way to the house. A note on the door said that yes, this was the place, and after getting the key from the owner, Geoff (a droll Michael Palin look-a-like), we found our cabin. It was wonderful- warm and cozy, with a gleaming kitchen and bathroom and excellent beds. Everything looked brand-new, and was perhaps the nicest place we stayed (a difficult distinction- what do you think, Diane?). Still full (permanently?)from the fish and chips, we settled in to read, and see what the morning would reveal.

The morning revealed this:



Then this:



And this:



It was just the sort of unprepossessing landscape you might speed past- a bend in the road, a café- and miss out on truly seeing.

The little dog’s name was “Socks”, probably after his markings, or his funny, splayed-out front feet- but possibly because of his nasty smell! Diane was extremely loath to pet him, and I don’t blame her. Although it was hard to resist him when he did this-



But I would immediately wash my hands afterwards. Truly a flower of evil.

It was cold! Frost glistened in the grass, and covered the cars windshield. But it was a beautiful day, and a joy to wake up to after such an uncertain arrival.

Diane was ready to use the hot springs. I just wanted a flat white (an sort of unlayered latte) from the café, which, along with our motel and the hot spring, made up the entirety of commercial Morere. She packed her things and we set out.

Morere, in the light of day, turned out to be delightful. The walkway over the stream we had crossed turned out to be a beautiful rope bridge.



The wood was slick with frost! Here Diane is concentrating on not slipping while smiling at the same time.



Pausing at the middle of the bridge we saw this view.



Diane, a bred-in-the-bone-bully, discovered she could make me stumble by bouncing on the bridge as she crossed.

I stopped in the café (which was surprisingly good, and cozy, with a fireplace in the corner) and got my coffee. We crossed the highway to the hot spring facility, where an amiable, gravel-voiced old brute sold Diane her ticket, and off she went.

She later told me the experience was lovely. Diane is an inveterate hot-bath-taker, whose opinion on such matters should be respected. She said that she was alone for the first forty-five minutes, reveling in the slanted morning sunlight in the wooden pool building, in the surrounding forest and in the birdsong. A bit later, a friendly Maori family joined her. The New Zealand accent can be hard to understand, particularly when coupled with exotic place names and slang. Diane, who had told her fellow bathers that she was traveling with a surfer, was initially baffled when told that “Blacks would be pumpin”, and that later it would be “chukka”. She came back to the cabin delighted with the entire experience, and seemed rather proud to have figured out that Blacks (a surf break) had big surf (was “pumpin”, or pumping, as in a steady procession of large swells), wasn’t crowded at the moment, but later, as the word got out, would draw a crowd (become “chukka”, chock-full). Her experience sounded really enjoyable, from the environment itself, to the friendly people.

Hearing that Blacks was pumpin’, I asked if she wouldn’t mind having a look at the surf. Morere was in the Mahia peninsula, a great surfing configuration with two distinct coastal orientations affording good wind exposure in two directions. The area is also isolated and un-crowded (that it is beautiful is a given). I loaded my surfboard and off we went.

It was a perfect sunny day. We drove around and looked at several breaks. I decided not to surf, ultimately. But it was fun to explore the peninsula with Diane, a treat in what can be a rather existentially lonely experience, as well as quintessential, for me, here- driving around looking for surf, looking, looking.



This break looks out onto the Mahia peninsula, to the south. Note the undulating land terminating in chalky-looking limestone (I think) cliffs- typical of the southeast coast. The geography reminds me of that of Point Reyes. I wonder what the earthquake situation is here?



If you want to know what I’m doing a lot of the time here in New Zealand, it’s pictured here- standing on an overlook over some surf break, wondering what to do...

This spot had a great little house next to it. That boat ain’t goin’ nowhere. Mahia is a Maori stronghold (“Whale Rider”, if you saw it, was filmed not too far away). It is very sparsely populated, and the dwellings you do see are humble. You see people doing chores looking back at you, curiously.



Here is a better look at the waves I’m considering in the above photo. There are several surfers out- if you (probably meaning “you”, Keith) click on the picture you can see them, and the wave they’re riding.




We spent another comfortable night in our little cabin. These two days blend together in my memory now, undoubtedly due to repetitious inactivity. Diane was reading a huge hardcover biography of Kate Hepburn, I, an autobiography by the poet Mary Karr (The Liar’s Club, highly recommended!). We finished our books, then switched.

Again, we awoke to frost. I was struck by the tranquil morning light on the fern-covered trail to the footbridge.



And the same soft light reflecting dew on the spider webs…



Geoff’s sheep (which he gleefully told us were raised for food) grazed right up to our cabin- our closest look at these shy animals. I remember Diane remarking that she didn’t like the back-end view of a sheep. She was developing refined criteria of the New Zealand experience.



In the late afternoon we went to the hot springs. We rented a private pool from Geoff, who it turns out, worked there too. A gentle rain started to fall as we settled in the wonderful hot water. The pool was in a beautiful wooden shelter that was open on one side to steeply sloping rainforest and an unseen creek below. The rain on the roof, the deep green forest, rich with oxygen, and the steaming hot mineral water were absolutely heavenly.

Good Choice, Diane.

Blogspot Being Bad

Hell, Oh!

I've been having a devil of a time uploading pictures into Blogspot (this spot). Just want to let you know that the sad fact that there's nothing new here isn't due to lack of effort on my part. I'll keep trying.

Speaking of lack of effort- is anyone out there reading this thing? This is a symbiotic relationship we have here, folks. If no one applauds, I'm going to keep grinding out "Wonderful Tonight" until the joint closes...

One for Keith

It seems to be taking forever to finish part two of Diane’s visit. In the meantime, here’s an entry 'specially for Keith (my surf pal back home), Andrew in Portland and any other surfers that might be reading.

The morning I left Raglan I checked the weather forecast, and made the choice to come back to the Taranaki. I’m so glad I did- I had perfect surfing weather with just the right wind direction and a nice-sized swell for three blissful days.

On Tuesday I made the twenty-minute hike to a magic place. The walk is so long that folks make a day of it; they bring lunches and take long breaks to rest and dry their wetsuits. Here’s a photo taken about a quarter of the way there, just before you descend from cow pastures onto the driftwood-strewn beach.



If you click on the picture, you’ll see surfers.



I walked around trying to capture the beauty of the waves from different angles.





The three shots below are a sequence, and show how the wave peels.





The times I’ve surfed it, the break has had an outside and an inside section. On the right swell, it all becomes one long wave. Not that I’m complaining. The view on this clear day was magnificent. Mt. Taranaki was three-quarters covered with snow, and looms spectacularly over everything. The air was clean and cold. The water even smelled good, like… what is it? Like “Gee, your hair smells terrific”!

Wednesday I met Craig, who took a break from caring from his three-week-old baby (a beauty!) with his partner Suzanne and working on restoring their 1920s-era farmhouse. Craig took me to a secret beach. We had to let ourselves through farm fences and bounce through pastures to reach the surf. It was a beach break (most spots here are volcanic rock reefs), and the waves were good- then as the tide dropped, got very good! It was wonderful fun to go with a friend, and the whole experience was really neat. Thank you, Craig. I didn’t take any pictures- I forgot my camera. I’ll just have to remember.

On Thursday the wind had shifted northeast. The coast wraps 180 degrees around Mt Taranaki- you have a whole range of places that will be offshore in any given wind direction. Today the place to be was around Opunake, which was great, because my Raglan friends were staying there. Maybe we would meet up! I checked the reefs around the town- one good setup after another, and not a soul out at any of them. Finally I went to a spot with a few cars parked in a cow pasture. One was my friends’. They were just getting out as I walked up. We made plans to meet the next day, and went our separate ways. The surf was great- the wave really wrapped and was exciting and steep- a very high-quality wave. Once again, I ‘d forgotten my camera, but a nice surfer was taking pictures, and took some of me! Thanks, Andy.

These three are a sequence:





These three are a sequence too:





Returning to New Plymouth in the late afternoon, the light was beautiful. The smokestack of the abandoned power plant dominates the town. I like it- it has a gothic, haunted quality, not to mention phallic.



The surf was smaller at Back Beach (the good beach break that I had sent you pictures of, Keith, and had in this blog). The waves are bigger down the coast than in town, like Santa Cruz/north county (but reversed south-for-north, as is every weather feature her in the southern hemisphere).

I often think of how fun it would be to explore this coastline with you, Keith. You’d be like a kid in a candy store. I know the environment would suit you, too. It’s a bit like north county Santa Cruz mixed with Big Sur, with Mt. Fuji overlooking it all… and everyone on niceness pills!

I hope we can travel here together someday.

Diane's Visit, Part 1

My patient friends,

I’m sitting in the kitchen at Solscape, in Raglan, savoring the warmth of the woodstove, and enjoying the quiet. What a difference from two months ago! The place is nine-tenths empty. The endless waves of hard-drinking surfers are gone. There are only three other people staying here, all working in one capacity or another for Phil and Bern. The mood is wonderfully subdued. One person is reading by the fire, another is writing on his laptop.

Christ, this is nice,

The nearly perfect run of clear weather Diane and I had enjoyed finally broke on the last days of our trip together. New Zealand’s wild winter rains began in earnest the morning we left Dean and Anj’s place in Tauranga. It rained hard during our short stay in Raglan too. But Diane, I have to say, that was nuthin’ compared to the biblical downpour I experienced on the way home from dropping you off at the airport. The incandescent pearloid skies and cathedral clouds we saw on the way up lowered and became opaque black as I drove back. The rain, when it came, hit Herbert like a brick wall. The view in my headlights looked like a cheap black-and-white soundstage effect of an imperiled ship- stagehands aiming fire hoses at wind machines. But it was real. I gripped the wheel and held on.

Later, bundled in my sleeping bag, listening to the hail spatter against the metal roof of my railcar cabin, I knew I was alone again, and the last phase of my pretty vacation had begun.

But one month ago…



I was happy to leave Dunedin. I had loved it, but anywhere except right by the fireplace was deathly cold, and I was getting lonely.

I made it to the Cook Straight ferry in two days- two shitty nights of sleep interrupted by returning drunken youth. This was worrisome, because I planned to stay in hostels at least some of the time with Diane. I had hoped the party-types would be a summer problem- no dice. Again I slept during the three-hour crossing, but this ship had no passenger cabins. I slept on a bench in a busy passageway in my long wool coat, with my cap pulled over my eyes.

I stayed a few days in New Plymouth at a favorite hostel in a big old house, and surfed beautiful waves at a beach just north of town. The water was far warmer than in Dunedin.

Then at last came the day to drive to Auckland. Diane’s flight arrived at five am the next morning, one of Air New Zealand’s “quirks”. Diane had booked a room right downtown, online. The website had a photo of a charming three-story Edwardian building. After a five-hour drive, I arrived to warm, sunny Auckland- and a brand-new ten-story concrete tower with a charming three-story Edwardian façade at its base. Grubby from the drive, feeling distinctly shabby, I checked in with the uniformed receptionist, guided Herbert between a pair of BMWs in the underground garage, and took the elevator up to our room. The view outside was of a grid of high-rise apartment balconies. It looked like something that might have inspired The Clash back in ’77. A plasma TV received TV1, TV2, a Christian channel and, oddly, a Punjabi channel. After a luxurious shower, I settled in for the night.

I was thrilled to be there, and excited even when the alarm went off at four am. Got to the airport easily- no cars! Being in the arrival area was emotional. The anticipation was sweet, but I was reminded that, homesick as I was at times, I’d be leaving myself in a few months. My resolution to enjoy my remaining time here was renewed.

-And there she was! It was so great to see her. And from then on, there was a delicious incongruity: I was amazed to see my best friend juxtaposed against the places I had only seen in my deepest solitude.





Before I begin, I'd like to say this: in this blog I’ve naturally assumed a tone of the lone traveler, enthused or alienated in turn (or at the same time) as it were, and if it served my story. From this point on, I’m conscious that Diane can read this and say “Bullshit!” or “Well, I didn’t see it that way”. I’ll do my best to convey mutual experiences without too much affectation… a bit of a balancing act… and I invite you, dear Diane, to give your perspective. Anything you want to write I’ll include.

And also: this thing, this blog, has served a function- a way to stay connected with you…a tonic for loneliness. It’s still that, but for a while, it’s sharing Diane’s story too.

I got us off to a great start by getting lost on the way back, and then a bit of driving on the wrong side of the road, near the hotel. Diane, who was giddy after the eleven-hour flight, was quite gracious and forgiving. She was eager to get out and see the city, so after getting settled and re-parking Herbert, out we went.

The weather was lovely, almost balmy. Auckland, at the best of times, is (I think) only just bearable- there’s a reason I don’t have any photos of it. Have you been to San Diego? Auckland is a bit like that. Utilitarian. But Diane was wide open. The very first thing we did was pop into a corner store for a phone card. I was charmed to see her eyeing a rack of meat pies with an expression of intense interest. Everything was new to her, and her enthusiasm renewed mine.

We were in Auckland for two days, and had a great time (we hadn’t started our rampant photo-taking yet, so unfortunately this section doesn’t have any). We walked and bussed around Auckland’s varied neighborhoods- Ponsonby and Karangahape roads (the “hip” streets), Parnell (the “yuppie” one) and Queen Street (the "downtown" one, a bit like an idealized version of Market Street in San Francisco). We began our addiction to kumara chips- sweet-potato-like, pseudo-healthy French fries. Diane liked to get off the shopping streets and into the residential neighborhoods, something she made a point to do in other cities we visited as well. We went to a fairly lame art exhibit (a drab ecologically-themed show), in what was the only open gallery of the closed-for-renovation civic gallery- then lucked into a talk on early Maori abstract-expressionism by Marilyn Webb, an artist who had been in on the scene in the 1950s. She was a delightful, charismatic speaker. Several people in the small, attentive audience were her contemporaries, and she frequently turned to them for their anecdotes.

We also got into watching that plasma TV. Favorite shows included:

“Moneyman”. A bald, mustachioed drill-sergeant arrives at a young couple’s house and pitches his pup tent in their yard. He then harangues them about how to keep a budget and live within their means.

“Mucking In”. Selfless community worker gets nominated by friends to have their garden redone. Said friends do the work (hence the title), in a great flurry of activity, ultimately causing the recipient to cry. Transformations consistently featured an outdoor kitchen. A giant outdoor chess-set was given to a non-chess-player.

“Cambell Live”. News pundit, with a winning chimp-like physiognomy. Impalpable appeal- for me, it might have been the absurdity that lived in the gap between his egotistical delivery and my utter ignorance of his celebrity. Or something.

I should also mention the farting twins (Diane’s favorite), but I don’t know the title of the show they were on.

And because it was all new, all vaguely or overtly absurd, we even got a kick out of the commercials. Our favorite was for a livestock product called “Calf Boost”.

We took a lovely walk along the waterfront one warm evening- the lights of the city reflected in the water of the harbor. People in wharf side cafes were eating and drinking and having fun in that Kiwi way that seems, to me, to be lighter and less maniacal than their American counterparts might be on a Saturday night in, say, North Beach. I had a nice feeling showing Diane around- almost like pride. Diane, maybe you felt that way the first time you showed me around Brookmont, and Bethesda, and D.C.

It began to rain the morning we left Auckland.- “Uh oh”, I thought. I had worried that there might be rain- a lot of rain- maybe the whole time- for Diane’s stay. It was that time of year. But it was nice to see Auckland’s suburbs give was to pastures. “I see sheep!” cried Diane. I smiled. How soon that thrill would wear off!

We left the main highway and rolled through undulating green farmland. Most of New Zealand’s highways are pleasant two-lane roads (though made less so by the way in which people drive- I liked to go the speed limit, about 60 mph, and was hounded by tailgaters who wanted to go faster). We were bound for Waihi Beach, on the east coast, over the Coromandal Mountains. We stopped in Thames, the last “big” town before the drive over the mountains, where I introduced Diane to the joys of Pak-And-Save, a sort of N.Z. Costco. It’s the cheapest place to buy food here.

The Coromandal Mountains are stunning, but a misty rain diminished the effect. But we were in high spirits, listening to Look Blue Go Purple (a jangly Flying Nun band), rolling along. It’s a revelation to leave Auckland, especially the first time. However cool that mediocre city seems, the real magic of New Zealand is revealed in the countryside. Like England, the greens seem extra vibrant, the brush saturated before being applied. Unlike England, the land is young, jagged, and volcanic. We raced around bends, descending to the coast.

Since we were driving past it, we stopped to see Opoutere, the wonderful place I wrote about a few months ago. When we got there, I again felt, acutely, the strange merging of my friend, here and now, with a place of such deeply felt solitude in the past (I won’t bring it up again). The YHA was closed for the winter (if it had been open, I surely would have booked us in there). We parked at the chained entrance to the driveway and hopped the fence. It felt sad to walk around the empty grounds and peek through the windows. We didn’t linger. We walked across the bridge, through the silent pine forest (which was full of bright orange mushrooms), and eventually reached the long, lonely beach. We took a few photos in the rain, and walked back, started Herbert and kept on going.

Thank goodness, the skies started to clear as we continued south! It wasn’t long before we reached the Waihi beach turnoff. On the way we saw this sign:


Something about it reminds me of Deb’s dog, Laika.

Diane had found our wonderful house at Waihi Beach back in San Francisco, after searching online. We were greeted by Alistair, the owner who lived next door. He was a friendly, hulking, sixty-ish gent who wore the same blue wool Pendleton shirt every day. Every day we would see him riding his old-style ten-speed bicycle around the streets of the town. One morning we saw his wife and children peddling behind him, like a family of ducks.

The place was great. I chose one of the three downstairs bedrooms. My guitars had another. Diane had the upstairs loft, which was bathed in light when the sun rose over the sea. There were two couches, perfect for mutual moral support while reading or napping. There was a TV to watch Cambell Live.

We spent four lazy, delicious days taking walks on the beach, cooking or eating out in the tiny town. We did a lot of lying around, reading. We could see that we made good travel partners- we were both on the same page in our lack of ambition- what we called “luffing”.

Waihi beach had a sleepy, off-season feeling. The streets were quiet. A bossy little white terrier patrolled ours. Once we saw him asleep in the middle of the road. Other times he fretted and barked at nothing, his voice echoing off the empty houses.




The beach was empty.




The weather was very mild- the warmest of our whole trip. There still seemed to be a bit of summer holding on, at Waihi beach.

Our most strenuous act was to walk around the headland to Orokawa beach. Climbing the first rise and looking south, we saw this:



In the distance is Matakana island- fairly close to where Dean and Anj live.

The coastline here reminded me of Big Sur. Same clean blue water sparkling, same forested cliffs. In the photo below, I’m getting my first glimpse of Orokawa Beach- one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen.



The pathway ascended to sunny lookout points, then dipped into cool, fern-canopied valleys.




After a twenty-minute walk, we reached the beach. It was just lovely.

Pohutakawa trees overhung the white sand. Sitting in the cool shade looking out at the ocean, listening to the murmur of the waves was deeply relaxing.



Out to sea were, I think, the same group of islands I showed you in the Opoutere entry a while back- but from a different angle.



The boughs of the pohutakawa tree hung right down to the sand, inviting one to climb. I did, and took a photo of Diane:



And she took one of me:



I was inspired to climb the rocks on the north end of the shallow crescent bay. Diane impressed me by following along. The pohutakawa roots acted like a ladder.



Around the corner were sheer cliffs and magnificent pohutakawa-covered rock formations rising from the sea. Click on the photo to see the trees in detail.



This beach, like so many in New Zealand, was healthy, full of life. We stopped and watched these red-billed oystercatchers:



And I lay down to capture these fellows. They seemed to all be talking at once.



Gregory said this photo was nice, but evoked negative connotations of Scientology. Do any of you know what the hell he’s talking about? Tell us in the “comments” feature- and I’ll bring you a special souvenir.

In some ways, our time at Waihi Beach was the nicest time of the trip- the most time in one place, the warmest, the laziest… the most relaxing. What do you think, Diane?

We also met our first animal host- Alistair’s fifteen-year old tabby, Xena. She was a battle-scarred old beast with a bobtail and no ears- just two barely-covered holes. Despite or because of that, she was beautiful. She came to see what we were about when we first arrived, walking around sniffing our baggage and taking a bath on the living room floor. Then she teased us for days by sitting on a pillow in the sun by a window in her house, visible but aloof. We called to her as loudly as we dared, beckoning. After a few days, finally, she visited again, to lie in the sun, with the house as her pillow, while we hung the laundry on outside lines- like they do in New Zealand, in the summer.



I’m leaving Raglan tomorrow. Against all odds, I got Herbert through his mandatory six-month Warranty Of Fitness inspection, and am ready to hit the road again. I had planned to head back to New Plymouth, to surf and spend more time at the excellent free public gallery, and explore its massive film archive, but the west coast winter rains have me thinking of sunny, remote Gisborne, on the southeast coast. It’s one in the morning, and I still don’t know which road I’ll choose…

But I promise to pick up the story again soon- and sooner this time.

Hope you all are well.