New Zealand

I consider nostalgia to be my greatest vice. Considering my lack of self control in may other aspects of my life you may be surprised by this. Let me explain: Sure, icecream is moreish, beer is relaxing and single malt whiskey gives my inner snob some exercise (despite not really knowing a lot about it, but anyone can fake that kind of thing with a bit of bombast and a confident grin). But nostalgia, now that is far more self indulgent than any of them. Nostalgia makes me feel good, I can reminisce about past glories, halcyon days, endless summers, and ceaseless good humour. And like all good vices, too great an indulgence of it can't be good for you: it's called living in the past.

I last visited New Zealand in 2012, and so this trip gave me plenty of fodder to nostalgate to. Much to Marie's chagrin. First, we visited Mike. Mike was my first friend, he lived eight doors down. We played together as kids and grew up together as teenagers, until we left, a year apart, for different Universities. Mike then emmigrated to New Zealand. I've only seen him twice since we met up in 2012. This time he had an entire family, with whom we spent a weekend camping. Nostalgia activated. We got on just the same as ever, only as adults conversing about culture, Maori language and cultural appreciation with the same fervour with which we once chatted about lego.

Next up, we went to stay with Derek. We last met in 2012 in Arapiles, but had stayed in sporadic contact since. Derek mostly messaged me to ask me how my day had been, referencing a conversation when he asked me about my day. With an increasingly urgent need to pee, I failed to ask him about his. He met us at the airport, I got there first and asked him how his day had been, we laughed, caught up, then he lent us his car for the rest of the month. He was just the same as I recalled, yet even more exuberant with age.

Rakiura

One of New Zealand's 11 'Great Walks', this one on Stewart Island, a place known for it's wildlife and your best chance to see a kiwi in the flesh. Day one was a treat: an hour's boat ride (lending yet more support to my postulation that all good adventures start with a boat ride), beaches, a suspension bridge, and a campsite right on the coast. We spent 90 minutes around dusk creeping around the forest with our headlamps set to red light so as to not disturb the kiwis we were trying to spot, yet no luck. In fact, the next two days hiking only brought ankle-deep mud, tales of kiwi sightings from every other hiker we saw, yet no kiwis for us! 

Marie travsersing a beach on day one

Paynes Ford

I'd heard this area described as "a bit chee dale". Now that's a phrase which is damming with feint praise if ever I heard one. So with expectations set low, we arrived at Hangdog campground. As cheap as Simon's field but with a summer community of friendly climbers and a bohemian, five minutes walk to the crags, crystal clear swimming holes in the river, and the town of Tākaka only a few minutes away for all your hippy needs (I honestly think I was in the minority in the supermarket as I was wearing shoes). Highlights included the camerarderie, story telling, rope swings into the river, and being bought some biscuits for my first ever Timtam Slam. So what if the climbing is a bit chee dale, it's good down there anyway.

1080 and the Letter G. Climbing at its most hedonistic.

Abel Tasman National Park

Day one: rent kayaks and paddle along the coast. Camp. Day two: hike back again. Wildlife included seal pups on uninhabited islands and Weca. Swimming included the most lush beaches I have ever seen.

Castle Hill

Somewhere else I visited in 2012, which gave further opportunity for nostalgia, especially as we camped at the same site, under the very same tree no less. Sadly the grafittied murals in the shelter have now been boarded over (including my favourite: "Worst mashed potato ever, 2004", which gets my vote for  the 'most despairing a story told in five words or fewer' award). We arrived with no pad, expecting to maybe have a walk and maybe do a couple of routes instead of boulder. However Oskar, who we met there, volunteered that he had a spare pad we could borrow. We slapped, smeared, and slipped our way around a circuit of problems as you would at any place which is shaped like Fontainebleau with all the friction of Anston Stones Wood.

Me on some V1 going on V6

Mari on some V0 crack going on VS 6a

As we drove back to Wanaka, we passed through Sheffield. Of course, we stopped for a pie and my final dose of whistful nostalgia.

Me, and me again. Fourteen years apart.

The Grand Traverse of the Remarkables

The Remarks (which is the only vernacular to use if you want to fit in with the locals) dominate the skyline of Queenstown, a spiky and complex dinosaur spine of rock. Thankfully, about 1200m of the elevation gain is outwitted by driving round the back to the ski centre, thus making it a far more fun. We hiked up the track underneath the ski lift, wondering what the yellow machines are which line the track. Marie asks me if I know, so I spin a yarn about them being speakers because its a well known fact that Kiwis love to party and dance not only apres, but also pendant their skiing. I suppress my smile as Marie reads the branding 'techno alpin' and nods her head in agreement.

Turns out, they blast out artificial snow rather than banging donks

This cheers me up nicely which is handy since we get lost for the next hour (note to self: when you're in the southern hemisphere without a compass, the sun is in the north of the sky). Eventually we regain the ridge in the right place to start the scramble proper. Great rock, a sharp ridge falling steeply away to the lake 2000m below, and continually interesting climbing: the day Marie fell in love with alpine routes.