Day 37 – 39 : Picton – “Show me your dolphins.”
Taking three hours to sail from the bottom of the north island to the top of the south, I manage to work out the distance between New Zealand’s two islands by comparing the voyage with a trip I’m familiar with. Similar in journey time to a cruise between Ireland and the UK, I deduct the mileage and I experience the fact that, though many maps show the two islands as one contiguous mass, New Zealand is very much a tale of two halves.
The ferry is busy and seemingly overrun with the Kiwi army. I’m not sure if this suggests the north is invading the south or if this is a common sight on the cross-channel journey, but there definitely appears to be an abundance of soldiers in various states of disarray flopped about the place. Most seem dog-tired and have suitably collapsed in numerous camouflaged mounds peppered about the ship. Other more intelligent warriors bulwark themselves into the canteen on a mission to relieve the vessel of all rations and nourishment.
We take up residence in the bar and try to rest while the ship does its best to launch itself off the city-sized swells and complete the remainder of the trip by air. Crossing over to the south island the weather takes a turn for the better, and though it’s still spitting rain by the time we dock at Picton, for some unexplained reason things look clearer and more pleasant.
Picton is very much a commuter town accommodating northern Kiwis venturing into the wilds of the south island and vice versa. The north of the south island is surrounded by a beautiful collection of lush green islands dotted about an aquamarine bay with towering tree-covered mountainous ridges reaching into the water like the arms of a protective deity.
The view is almost tropical and the area reminds me more than a little of the vegetative regions we traversed through in Hawaii. It’s as if during the islands’ tumultuous separation millions of years ago the north of the south island shattered into an abundance of islets and hidden marinas. As the contents of the ferry trickle away and out into the wilds of the south island, we walk to the Picton Lodge to check-in and then up into the quiet sea-side town itself to get a look at where we’ll be staying for the next couple of days. The fact that Picton is quite tiny just makes it all the more quaint. Of course it would be hard for the town to be anything but idyllic with it sitting quietly among the high lush peninsulas that contribute to a perfect blue shoreline.
We enjoy some lunch in a restaurant under new management where who I suspect is the new manager cocks my order up and then sits himself down to eat the bowl of soup (with the same spoon I might add) I didn’t actually order. The pace and niceness of the place just makes the delay funny while anywhere else I’d probably be warned by my travelling companion to stop taking everything so seriously and calm down.
Possibly the main reason we’re at Picton is to partake in the pleasure of dolphin swimming. Perched at the side of the harbour in a tiny white container are two marine biologists, a husband and wife team who will take those interested out into the tranquil waves of the northern tip of the south island and personally introduce visitors to Picton to a family of dolphins. We ring up on numerous occasions but get jibbed every single time as it appears no one else has signed up for the excursion and, unless we’re willing to pay for a phantom third person to cover the costs (we’re not), the trip will not be going ahead. We’re disappointed but vow to swim with dolphins in Australia instead.
To pass the unexpected free time in Picton we enquire about a forest walk over across the bay area. After all, the only other option is to stay back at the lodge in the company of one of those backpackers who has decided to stay on permanently and make up his rent by cleaning tables and mopping floors. This one looks like Rob Zombie, however, and seems to be constantly eating ice-cream and staring at people intensely – especially when it comes to changing the channel on the living room’s TV. I’m not sure what this unholy trinity of traits might spell (ice-cream, zombies and a ten-yard stare) so we’d much rather be walking into the jungle than in his presence if at all possible.
We board the Cougar II which is a sizable speed-boat type vessel captained by the affable Chris, a fair-haired tour-guide who gladly ferries us across the glistening bay while regaling us with stories featuring a veritable cast of unfortunates.This is what happens when you add degenerates to water. Idiotic kids, blind billionaires getting stranded and other such fanciful nautical faux-pas make up his repertoire of sea tragedies. Just as he’s telling us one particular tale of watery woe, a tiny sailing boat manned by two hapless children is detected off the starboard bow on a direct collision course. Their sail is down so they can only see about 180 degrees of the bay – which just so happens to be the half that doesn’t contain the huge speeding vessel to their port.
Chris slows down and waits for them to see him as they pass across the Cougar II’s path. At this point they do see him, smile, and then do an about-turn and sail back over his sailing path again to wild chuckles and hand waving. Chris swears at them but then quickly admits that he performed the exact same chicken-runs against bigger boats when he was a whipper-snapper himself.
We’re let off at a remote scenic alcove and wander into the lush environs. We’re told to find Queen Charlotte’s path and walk for a few hours in the direction of another jetty where we’ll be picked up. With a deadline in our heads and a bag full of chocolate (the ration choice of champions) we stumble onward with the vain idea that the trail will be well sign-posted, scenic and proffer a nice leisurely stroll. Well, it was scenic. One out of three isn’t bad.
I literally crawl up an over-grown dirt track that can only be used by rabbits, fallen trees blocking access like fabled Bouncers of the Woodland. Forty-five minutes later (of a four hour trek) we find the trail. Three quarters of one of our four hours we’re completely covered in sweat and scrapes from over-zealous brambles, panting, and, technically, the journey hasn’t even started yet.
Our walk to the pick-up point takes us up and into the temperate jungles of New Zealand’s south island. We follow an ever-winding dirt trail through dense overgrowth and over babbling streams, our legs starting to ache from the constant climbing and then rushing down winding paths after about the hour three mark. At times the canopy breaks and the trail leads us to beautiful bluffs, the tranquil and insanely turquoise waters of the marina a still reflection of the forest covered islands all around us.
We make the pick-up twenty minutes early and return back to Picton harbour. After some marine machismo from Chris as he bullies some burly fishermen out of his parking spot, we check in with the dolphin people only to be told, — and it’s final this time — that we’re not going to make our date with the friendly porpoises of the area. Bastards.
Our stay in Picton is brief though memorable, and the tiny coastal town comes heartily recommended. The locals are charming and full of character, especially the group of middle-ages alcos in the local pub who, after racking up a table-full of empty beer bottles, decide to get into a fist-fight when one of them attempts to leave early – who then insults one of the women by slurring something about a dildo. I’m not sure, I was eying exits at the time and figuring out who I should plunge my steak-knife into first if anything went down.
Next up: more buses with Nelson and Motueka on the agenda.
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