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Before you pull out the atlas, a word of warning: Patagonia isn’t officially a 'place' as such. Rather it’s the name given to an area spanning southern Argentina and Chile, and everything you have heard about it – barren, windswept, sparse and beautiful – is true. < Back Spires of Patagonia The Press 13 May 2011 Before you pull out the atlas, a word of warning: Patagonia isn’t officially a 'place' as such. Rather it’s the name given to an area spanning southern Argentina and Chile, and everything you have heard about it – barren, windswept, sparse and beautiful – is true. Patagonia is also exceptionally remote, with the remotest of the remote being the small frontier town of El Chalten. A far cry from the wide avenues of Buenos Aires, El Chalten was only established 30 years ago as a base for those seeking out the jagged spires. Complete with roaming dogs, micro-brewery and no ATMs, this was to be the starting point for our Patagonian adventure. To be honest, I didn’t have any great expectations on the glaciers, mountains and lakes nearby; I just assumed they would be similar to our Franz Joseph, Cook and Hawea. How spectacularly wrong I was… Our very first excursion brought home that this was no ordinary part of the world. The majestic Perito Moreno Glacier, a blue-iced mammoth more than 6 stories high and 3kms wide is one of the few advancing glaciers left in the world. It is also one of the most spectacular. We stood on our boat awestruck as it cracked and creaked, piercing the quiet before ice broke off to thunder down into the waters below. Later there were even more opportunities to “ooh” and “ahh” from the myriad of walkway lookouts designed to show off nature’s splendour. While that day was relatively easy the next few would be a little more challenging. Patagonia is a climbers and hikers mecca, and for us this was going to be an active holiday. Eight to nine hours a day walking up to 25kms meant it did help to have a moderate level of fitness. Our first real trek was to see the fabled Cerro Fitz Roy, a mountain that the native Tehuelche thought was an active volcano due to the cloud constantly around it. Located in Argentina’s Parque National Los Glaciares, Fitz Roy is a photographer’s dream that is perhaps only eclipsed by two stunning lakes – the emerald green Laguna Sucia and the reflective blue Laguna de Los Tres. As we stretched back to take in the view, suddenly our feet didn’t seem so sore any more. The next day it was time for a close up look at the quintessential Patagonian peak, Cerro Torre. It was hard to believe that yesterday’s vista could be surpassed, yet three hours later we were standing in front of a glacial lake which had icebergs floating to shore. It was all simply a little too surreal. Our guide explained that we were extremely privileged to have seen the mountain at all. Patagonia is quite rightly known for its changeable weather and more than once did we have to pull out our Gore-Tex jackets before stuffing them back into our packs just as quickly. Chilean Patagonia is a slightly different beast from its Argentinian cousin, with grassy pampas, gushing waterfalls, craggy rocks, pebble lake beaches and of course, mandatory glaciers. At 51° South is the massive Parque Nacional Torres del Paine, a UNESCO World Biosphere Reserve that forms part of the 16,000 square kilometre Southern Patagonian Ice Field. It is about as close to the end of the Earth as you can get. The star of the show is the immense Torres del Paine, a trio of pure granite towers standing over 2800metres tall that dominate this former sheep estancia. Home to two famous walks – the W (of which we took a whole day just to do one of its sides) and the full Circuit – Torres del Paine (pronounced pie-nay) is high on the ‘must do’ list for any serious hiker. It’s well equipped with refugios along the trial which are a welcome respite from battling the 90kmh winds that suddenly change your plans for the day. Just as spectacular as the scenery is the park’s wildlife. We were fortunate enough to spot a group of Andean Condor rising, rising, rising up through the valley floor only to circle above what remained of a puma’s kill. The carnivorous condor has the largest wingspan of any bird in the world, 3 metres, and with its 3km eyesight (yes, that’s 3 kilometres) and endangered species status it is one vulture not to be messed with. Its prey in this case was a young chulengo, the offspring of the llama-like Guanacos who roam freely across the national park. Protected from mankind, the greatest threat to male guanacos are other male guanacos who protect their territory by chasing them to bite their testicles. The star of the show is the immense Torres del Paine, a trio of pure granite towers standing over 2800metres tall Less brutal are the red and grey foxes – small, fast, solitary creatures living in the steppe. Feeding on lizards and rodents, it’s not often you’ll see one in the wild long enough for it to stay still in one place. The bird life was also vastly different. Stopping to fill our water bottles in one of the many glacial streams along the way, the tap-tapity-tap of a native woodpecker earning his lunch brought smiles all round. Even the humble owl – in this case the Pygmie Owl – was no stranger to hunting. We awoke one morning to find one proudly clawing what looked like a decapitated mouse, before he fluttered off to share his breakfast. Having a good base is vital for this part of the world, and for us it was a campsite in the shadow of the Towers of Paine. While the site was basic we got to experience both the local culture and food. Sipping mate through a metal straw from a gourd was a highlight, but nothing compared to the whole lamb slowly barbequed on a metal stake for an entire day. If you’re a vegetarian sometimes it’s a little tough in South America. It wasn’t all bad though – not far from our site was a concession to home comforts in the form of a proper bar and restaurant where they served up lovingly warm Chilean reds to those of us weary from another day. Staggering back at night we took a moment to turn off our headlamps and look up. Layers of stars were stacked one above another; a sky so clear and pure that it was a pity to bid it adios and reluctantly make our way back to civilisation the next day. < Previous Next >

Platform 3, Beijing Railway Station. And there she was - the fabled Trans-Siberian, ready to take me on the longest train journey in the world. A surreal three countries, five time zones and 8300km of steppe, snow and stations lay ahead... but first of all there was Beijing. < Back The Greatest Train Journey in the World The Press 28 Oct 2010 Platform 3, Beijing Railway Station. And there she was - the fabled Trans-Siberian, ready to take me on the longest train journey in the world. A surreal three countries, five time zones and 8300km of steppe, snow and stations lay ahead... but first of all there was Beijing. Had it not been for this trip I doubt China would have been high on my list. But the Forbidden City, where the last emperor was waited on by eunuchs, and the vast Summer Palace with its myriad of bridges, easily proved me wrong. Thankfully I’d made a pact with my alarm to avoid the hordes of flag waving guides and my reward was an aged souvenir map highlighting the Lingering Interest Courtyard and the Realm of the Multitudinous Fragrance. The palace itself was like antiquity on steroids; a make-believe world that was only opened to the public last century. It was hard to comprehend that I had got there via the modern metro built for the 2008 Olympics, at a very cheap 3Yuan flat rate ($0.60c). Of course, while there were the “must sees” for me the best part of Beijing was the unexpected. Not the Great Wall and the fried silkworms (avoid eating at all costs) but rather the old man singing in the Temple of Heaven, the veiled Chinese belly dancer, and the local in Tiananmen Square who kindly advised that if I kept my daypack on during the flag raising ceremony I risked being “spoken too”. Recent history is never too far away in modern China. But now it was time to leave all that behind. For the spotter, the correct title of the train I was about to board was the Trans-Mongolian, one of three lines that make up what is generally referred to as the Trans-Siberian Railway. Contrary to popular belief there is no express train per se that goes all the way, but instead a variety of carriages and engines that get shuntered together and pulled apart at different stations along the journey. Once on board, I met my new roommates in our 4 berth Kupe class cabin: an Aussie, a Belgian and a Colombian. We pooled our goodies – iPod, cards, bad wine, portable DVD, Lonely Planet guides and more cards – before all trying to unpack at the same time. Luckily I had the advice of a previous traveller, “two levels of packing”. I had no idea what that meant until I found my backpack buried under the bottom bunk and my food, toiletries and books keeping my toes warm. Not that they needed to. There must be an edict that says Westerners love heat and at times our carriage was turned up to a stifling 28°. It may sound odd but the clothes I wore the most were t-shirts and shorts – a striking contrast to the frigid view outside. The haunting emptiness of the Gobi Desert somehow made ‘inhospitable’ an understatement. Mongolia had always sounded like one of those exotic far-away places, and Ulaanbataar, its frozen capital, an answer we should know in Trivial Pursuit. At -13° this was the coldest place I had ever been. To have your gloves solidify moments after taking them off gives you an idea of the chill in the air. Luckily, warmth was only a bar away... or so I thought. Unbeknownst to me, we made the mistake of arriving on the 1st of the month which happens to be a date allocated to no selling of alcohol in an effort to cut down on rampant alcoholism. That little idiosyncrasy was just one of the rules and customs that sets this oft-maligned country apart from its larger neighbours. Knowing I wouldn’t be passing this way again I did what any tourist would do – go see Mongolian throat singers, human contortionists and demon mask dancers. With $1 equalling 1000 Mongolian Togrogs I felt I could afford anything, including venturing to Terelj National Park. Opportunity to hold a giant black hawk? Check. Visit the biggest Chinggis Khan statue in the world? Check. Stay overnight in a traditional Mongolian ger tent? Check. Mongolia was far from the backwater I expected.Back on the train and the one thing you need on the Trans-Siberian is patience. The border crossings remain, shall we say, tiresome, although thankfully no more so than the first crossing from China into Mongolia. Because both countries have a different gauge - the width between tracks - our carriage literally had to be lifted off its bogies with a clunk and a half, plonked onto new bogies and then set up ready to go. On top of Customs coming on board, searching belongings, scanning visas, walking off with our passports, coming back on again hours later and handing back passports, the whole episode took over 12 hours. China, Mongolia and Russia all require New Zealanders to get visas and with the Russian one especially there is copious amounts of paperwork. If you say you’re going to be in Russia from a certain date to a certain date – that’s how long your visa will be issued for. In my case, Iceland’s volcanic ash clouds had other ideas so it pays to give yourself some leeway. Mongolia had always sounded like one of those exotic far-away places, and Ulaanbataar, its frozen capital, an answer we should know in Trivial Pursuit. Across the border and moving again, this time with carriages joining us from Vladivostok as we moved closer to our next destination: Irkutsk. Everything you’ve heard about Siberia is right. Cold, desolate, isolated, cheerless. And that’s during spring. The main reason I’d disembarked was to visit the small fishing village of Listvyanka, a short bus ride away on the shores of Lake Baikal. This little known lake contains one fifth of the world’s fresh water and, much to the consternation of my fellow traveller from Bruges, is actually bigger then Belgium. Bruges Boy and I had been set up with a homestay in the village, and despite some initial reservations we knocked on the door. Olga (yes, her real name) greeted us with something close to a bear hug and welcomed us in after stamping the snow in the corridor. She spoke no English and we spoke little Russian but it’s amazing what spasiba (thank you) while rubbing our stomachs can get across. Unlike New Zealand, the kitchen is one of the smallest rooms, with the lounge dominating as the family centre. It was hard to comprehend that our host who was dishing up borsch (a traditional beetroot soup) had lived through Communism, Perestroika and today’s Putin-ish era, yet you got the feeling that nothing had really changed for her. After lunch Olga pointed down to two jet-skiers on the frozen lake, and thinking we had a good chance of having a ride off we wandered. We waved them down. Negotiations followed. Roubles exchanged hands. More roubles exchanged hands. Before we knew it we were zooming along at 40kms an hour skipping over the deepest lake in the world and speeding down the village’s main street – ‘exhilarating’ doesn’t even come close to describing it! After our little adventure it was sad saying dasvidaniya to Olga, but she gave us some korushka (dried fish) for our next train leg... 50 hours from Irkutsk to Ykaterinburg. Zima, Krasnoyarsk, Novosibirsk, Omsk, Tyumen – all mere 10 minute stops as we headed towards the border of Asia and Europe. Enough time to approach the platform babushkas to buy sausage, bread and some odd smelling cheesey things, and then scurry back to our cabin before we got the evils from “she who must be obeyed”: the Provodnista. From what I could gather the Provodnista’s official carriage attendant duties included waking us up, scowling, prodding us when in the way, telling us to pipe down, pointing at the hot water and yelling in Russian, and letting us know how long we had at each stop. Not that we knew what the real time was anyway; the Trans-Siberian runs on Moscow time no matter where it is in the world. All the while we entertained ourselves and some of the local workers on board by practicing words and sharing their vodka until Na zdorovje (to health) turned into a 50 hour blur. Needless to say, when the train finally pulled into Ykaterinburg there was a near stampede to get off. The city itself has a long, blood-stained history. It was here that Tsar Nicholas II and his young family were killed by Bolsheviks under orders from Lenin and these days it’s a magnet for those who consider the family Roman Orthodox saints. Until 1990 Ykaterinburg was entirely off limit to westerners due to “sensitivity” i.e. military bases, yet today it’s a bustling university town full of students who want to tell you where they’d like to travel to. Ykaterinburg also takes the prize for “most quirky”. Wandering the banks of the Plotinka I came across a wedding party on one of the bridges. Not ususual apart from this: the bridge was full of padlocks – heart shaped, square shaped, round-shaped – all locked to the fence. I watched as the bride and groom added a lock of their own to the bridge fence and then kissed the key before throwing it into the river, symbolising the unbreakable union of their marriage. Very far from the dour, unsmiling Russians you read about. If Ykaterinburg challenged my assumptions, then Moscow well and truly smashed them. To stand outside the Gum department store and look across Red Square to Lenin’s Mausoleum, the Kremlin and Ivan The Terrible’s onion domes of St Basils – nothing comes close to saying “this is Russia”. If you can get beyond the Moscow of fur hats, matryoska dolls and communist icons, I highly recommend taking the Metro just to see the grand socialist sculptures, stained glass windows and stunning chandeliers in the underground stations. The overall impression Moscow left me with was unabated style, and I swear they only let supermodels walk around outside. Even the train was sleek and modern as I left on the final 800km of my journey. Last stop, imperialist St Petersburg. It was a little sad getting off the train, leaving behind what had ostensibly been my home for the last three weeks. I felt I should have had some sort of official goodbye. After all, who was going to poke me? How was I going to survive normal airconditioning? The rush of the crowd put paid to that idea. St Petersburg is the most European of all Russian cities, built by Peter the Great in the 1700s to emphasise, well, how great he was. And in the midst of his greatness is now The Church of Our Saviour on Spilled Blood. Built on the site where Tsar Alexander II was assassinated (it doesn’t pay to be a Romanov), it’s almost Disney-like in its reflection in the Kanal Griboedova. Inside is just as impressive and worth every one of the 250 Roubles ($11) entrance fee. Intricate hand-crafted mosaics cover every inch of the walls and ceiling, each telling one small part of a greater biblical story. Only the world famous Hermitage museum could top it off, and as luck would have it Russian soldiers were practicing their marching for an upcoming parade to mark the end of World War II. Generally photos of soldiers are frowned upon but a quick smile and a nod and they let me get away with it. I topped off my last afternoon with a canal tour of the city – with guide, snacks and drinks on board I couldn’t think of a better way to see the “Venice of the North”. And with that my trip finally came to an end; a trip that was as much about the journey as the destinations throughout. The Trans-Siberian Railway with all its notions of romantic isolation, desolate landscapes and culture clashing cities was indeed a “once-in-a-lifetime” experience, against an ever-changing backdrop outside the cabin window. < Previous Next >

Even the most ardent solo traveller at some stage will need a guide - someone who knows their cantons from their arrondissements better than you do. I’ve used more than 20 guides around the world, from well-known tour companies to random taxi drivers, so here are a few simple tips that might help you out. < Back Guiding Principles New Zealand Herald 12 Jun 2017 Even the most ardent solo traveller at some stage will need a guide - someone who knows their cantons from their arrondissements better than you do. I’ve used more than 20 guides around the world, from well-known tour companies to random taxi drivers, so here are a few simple tips that might help you out. Choose if you can. Often I travel independently and need a local guide / translator / fixer that can’t be found in a Lonely Planet. TripAdvisor’s online forums are a great starting point – if only to identify companies that specialise in where you’re going – and from there a little desk research will get you far. Don’t necessarily go for the cheapest, make sure they have a good grasp of English over e-mail, and be clear about what costs are and aren’t included. The tour company isn’t your guide. But the guide will be your company, so never assume that all the correspondence has been passed on to the person in front of you. Always check when it’s appropriate to do so, and share what is important to you so they understand from the start. If you’re after more culture than history, say so. If photo ops are your thing, ask them to take you to the most picturesque locations. Once they know your specific interest it’s a lot easier for them to pull you aside (if in a group) or point you in a certain direction. Ask ahead. The best guides I have ever had informed me ‘two steps ahead’. “Tonight we’re meeting here for dinner and then you have your own time, and we’re checking out at x o’clock and can then change your money at y.” Asking ahead will ease any planning anxiety and give you a sense of freedom knowing how much time you have before you need to be somewhere. Surprises are never good. This goes both ways. Make sure you’re communicating with your guide as much as you can from Day 1. Depending on your level of OCD-ness and if you speak the local language, this can be a fine line. However, if something seems at odds with what you were expecting, politely but firmly enquire. Once on tour don’t forget that you’re the client and your guide genuinely wants to do the best for you, so be as up front as possible. Buy The Gumboots. It’s a metaphor for, “The reason your guide is suggesting something, might not be the reason that you suspect.” This is where you have to trust your guide. In my case I had perfectly adequate tramping shoes and gaiters for the jungle; but I should have bought the gumboots he recommended. I had to take my shoes on and off at every house and I became a muddy time-consuming embarrassing mess. Once on tour don’t forget that you’re the client and your guide genuinely wants to do the best for you Be generous. Guides, by nature, tend to be curious about the rest of the world. Whether it’s showing them selfies on your phone or the wonders of the Remarkables, be generous with your time in telling them about New Zealand. Everyone is surprised we have so many sheep. And hobbits. Make the most of it. Like all occupations, sometimes you get a guide who is a bit of a dick. You’ll spot them; they’re more interested in their own comfort than worried about your needs; they tend not to translate unless you ask; and are very poor at letting you know what is going on. All you can really do is continue to push and ask questions, and reach out to others you meet along the way to find out what you’d like to know. Thankfully these guides are the exception. Above all, remember that your guide is just that, someone to help, assist and recommend, and all going well you’ll be wishing they were available for every trip you go on. Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

As I left the room, I respectfully bowed my head and thanked my host, Tanjkeara. His wife, Francisca, who I had met at a cock fight had invited me into their home, impressing upon me that her husband spoke English, Dutch and Bahasa. As it was Tanjkeara didn’t say much - he hadn’t since he had died three years ago. < Back The Land of the Toraja Otago Daily Times 1 Nov 2023 As I left the room, I respectfully bowed my head and thanked my host, Tanjkeara. His wife, Francisca, who I had met at a cock fight had invited me into their home, impressing upon me that her husband spoke English, Dutch and Bahasa. As it was Tanjkeara didn’t say much - he hadn’t since he had died three years ago. For the Toraja of southern Sulawesi, death is very much a part of life and their elaborate funeral rites are renowned throughout Indonesia. As per custom, Tanjkeara was being kept in the southern end of the house until he could be buried. For now, he was considered ‘ill’ and was still talked to, brought water and tobacco, and received visitors like me. Ithos, my local guide, explained more. “For us, it is important to honour those who will pass to puja , the afterlife, and to connect between the living and the dead. And here that is very expensive.” Although the Toraja are predominantly Christian – a highlands enclave in the most populous Islamic country in the world – they blend this with Alukta , the ‘old religion’. It is believed that without a traditional tomate funeral ceremony misfortune will come to the family of the deceased. For the high caste that means constructing temporary seating and housing for hundreds of expected guests, feeding and watering the helpers in the months leading up to the funeral, and then the bloody sacrifice of at least 24 buffalo to accompany the deceased to puja . Until then, like Tanjkeara, they rest at home in a coffin. Ithos continued. “After burial, once every three years we remove them to change their clothes, and polish their necklaces, and clean their glasses. This is ma’nene , this is how we look after them.” The exhumed are then returned to their graves which may be in the form of crypts carved into solid rock, coffins hanging from cliffs, or natural ledges in caves. He nodded upward. Sitting quietly in the rock balconies above us, tau tau effigies of the dead reached out with chipped wooden hands. “It is OK, I know it is different for you, but think of it as a celebration not a sad time.” I must have been silent for a while, as Ithos sensed my wonder (or unease) and offered to take me to see his family’s tongkonan for a change of scenery. The drive from the town of Rantepao into the countryside was a pretty one, full of rice paddies and giant bamboo, punctuated only by swerving to avoid dogs sleeping on the road. As we approached his family’s traditional tongkonan my jaw dropped. Intricately carved, elaborately painted, saddleback-roofed houses stood before me, reaching to the sky. That is, until I was corrected. “No no, not those,” smiled Ithos, “They are only alang , rice barns. There are our tongkonan ”. Facing north stood three giant houses, their distinctive shape representing the prows of ships that brought the original Toraja across the Java Sea and up the Sa'dan river. The architectural beauty was only surpassed by the extraordinary number of buffalo horns adorning the front of the house. When it comes to tongkonan size does matter, with social status measured by evidence of sacrificial ceremonies. As luck would have it I was about to find out where all these buffalo came from as the Bolu market was being held in town. The market, held unhelpfully ’every six days’, is a raucous affair of yelling and haggling on top of crowing and grunting. The giant buffalo pen smelt like, well you know, as close inspections started on the most prized white-faced buffalo. The cost? I could pick up a small buffalo to take home for about 14,500,000 Indonesia Rupiah ($1000 US dollars). Something bigger? I'd be dropping a cool 50mil at least. When it comes to tongkonan size does matter, with social status measured by evidence of sacrificial ceremonies. Bolu market is also where a canny Torajan can pick up a winning investment – in the form of a rooster. Although betting on cock fighting is not officially allowed, a blind eye is turned in the case of celebrations or funerals. Before me, men crouched, holding their prized roosters before challenging others to a mock fight (no blades). By proving their rooster’s prowess, through speed and ‘efficiency’, the men get to put more Rupiah in their pocket. Knowing I was keen to explore the countryside, the next morning Ithos took me further into the hills. The name Toraja comes from “People of the uplands” and the geology of region naturally irrigates the numerous rice terraces. As we navigated between paddies the retreating mist gave way to early morning workers, passing slowly under Salamat Datang signs that welcomed visitors to each village. “You like rice?” Ithos asked half-jokingly. “Tonight, I take you to a favourite restaurant for bamboo in chicken.” Not quite knowing where to expect the bamboo to be but always keen to try local delicacies, you can imagine my relief when pa’piong ayam arrived - grilled chicken minced with vegetables and extra hearty Toraja spices, all sitting in a hollowed-out bamboo shoot. As we sat there discussing the price of buffalo, the roar of engines and horns got louder. We looked outside to see a procession of bikes, revved up motors and cheering passengers, slowly making their way up the street. Behind them in a cloud of fumes followed an ambulance. The motorcade was the Torajan way of paying respects to someone who had just died and was being returned to their village. They were now on the first part of their journey to puja , but would first rest in their home, receiving visitors and guests. Details Where: Toraja land, South Sulawesi, Indonesia When: July and August are the drier months when the ma’nene cleaning is held How: Fly into the new Toraja Airport (TRT), one hour’s drive from Rantepao Stay: Toraja Misiliana Hotel, including options to stay in a Toraja Tongkonan Suite Original publication: Otago Daily Times < Previous Next >

It might not have been the largest plane in the world but it certainly was the friendliest. As we disembarked to the hot sticky tarmac, the pilot literally poked his head out of the cockpit to say “bye” to each of us, adding a cheery “Welcome to Gizzy!” < Back A Flying Visit Let's Travel 11 Mar 2011 It might not have been the largest plane in the world but it certainly was the friendliest. As we disembarked to the hot sticky tarmac, the pilot literally poked his head out of the cockpit to say “bye” to each of us, adding a cheery “Welcome to Gizzy!” The city’s known for a lot of things including being first to see the Sun, landing place of Captain Cook, brilliant beaches and Rhythym & Vines – but this weekend was going to start with the isolated, rural, "Boy"-ish East Coast. Tolaga Bay, 45 min north of Gisborne was my first stop. The biggest township on the East Coast happens to have the longest wharf in New Zealand, a stirring sight as waves crash against it at dawn. From there it was down the road – a quick stop at ‘secret’ Anaura Bay where my parents still go to “get away from it all” – before moving on towards the East Cape. Beyond the rumbling logging trucks and idling cows there wasn’t a lot of traffic. You get the feeling that’s the way the locals like it. Tokomaru Bay, Te Puia Springs and Ruatoria all deserved a visit before arriving at one of the most majestic Maori churches in the country – the ornate St Marys in Tikitiki. With tukutuku work and intricate wood carvings, the church is dedicated to the Ngati Porou soldiers who died in World War I. Of course, no trip up the Coast would be complete without venturing to Te Araroa to see the world’s largest Pohutukawa, and the sign politely asking kids not to play on it. Back in Gisborne a few hours later there was only one thing to do under the sun… wine tasting. I thought I’d misheard when, at The Works, a winery located on the wharf in town, they’d suggested “7 tastings for $10”. Out they came as the owner patiently took me through each glass, explaining the origin and various other things that I can no longer remember due to 7 wine tastings. Gisborne has no shortage of fine wine with names such as Milton Estate, Montana, Lindauer, Matawhero, Huntaway and Bushmere Estate all calling the region home. Beyond the rumbling logging trucks and idling cows there wasn’t a lot of traffic. You get the feeling that’s the way the locals like it. Time to walk it off and luckily I’d picked up a Gisborne, A Historic Walk brochure from the Visitor Information Centre beforehand. Marking the landing of the first European on New Zealand shores in October 1769 is the Captain James Cook memorial. The first hongi between Pakeha and Maori took place on a rock just opposite this statue. Further along, another statue, that of Nicholas Young - “Young Nick” – who was the first on board the Endeavour to sight New Zealand and who has the brilliant white cliffs south of the city named after him. Then the beach. Aficionados will argue about which Gisborne beach is better: Waikanae, Midway, Kaiti, Makarori… the fact there are so many to choose from tells you something. White sandy expanse? Check. Room for your huge towel and beach umbrella? Check. Offshore swell? Check. Icecream store with generous double scoops? Check. Yes, the beaches are something else and the locals know it. They teach surf school here. At dusk the city comes into its own. No longer the sleepy town of the 80s, Gisborne has more hotels, bars and clubs than it rightfully should. Whether it be an Irish pub, a waterside wine bar or an upmarket restaurant you won’t be disappointed by either the service or the entertainment. And when the big Kiwi names go on their summer tours guess which town is always on the list? If you just want to take time out though, like I did for my final afternoon there, you can appreciate this pretty city by strolling through Gisborne’s Botanic Gardens. An oasis for lovers to relax and admire one of the rivers flowing through the city, the gardens also house a decent aviary, some noisy ducks, and oh yes, some beautiful plants.48 hours didn’t quite seem long enough though, and I felt a little cheated that I hadn’t dedicated more time to exploring this part of the country. It was hard getting back on the plane to leave, but somehow I knew that even that would be friendly. Details Air New Zealand flies to Gisborne up to 7 times a day from Auckland and 4 times a day from Wellington. www.airnewzealand.co.nz State Highway 35 from Gisborne to Te Araroa on the East Coast is approximately a two hour drive one way. The Works Great value wine tasting 0800 333 114, info@theworks.co.nz, http://theworks.co.nz/ Wines of Gisborne a handy guide and a good starting point to book tickets to the annual wine festival http://www.gisbornewine.co.nz/ Gisborne Visitor Information Centre The first stop for planning your trip http://www.gisbornenz.com Grey Street, Gisborne Ph: 06 868 6139 or email: info@gisbornenz.com Gisborne Surf Report: Webcams, swells, winds, conditions and “stoke ratings” http://www.surf2surf.com/reports/gisborne < Previous Next >

Y’all not from round here, are ya? Ain’t nobody drinks Budddd. This is Shiner Bock country, sir.” And with that the barman passed over a golden-labelled bottle of ale. I was in Luckenbach, Texas, population 3, a small town in the Hill Country west of San Antonio. < Back Deep in the Heart of Texas New Zealand Herald 3 May 2016 Y’all not from round here, are ya? Ain’t nobody drinks Budddd. This is Shiner Bock country, sir.” And with that the barman passed over a golden-labelled bottle of ale. I was in Luckenbach, Texas, population 3, a small town in the Hill Country west of San Antonio. It was to be the starting point for an adventure deep into the heart of Texas, a road trip to discover the smaller side of the big state. The Hill Country is known as much for its wildflowers and Harley-hugging roads as it is for being in the Bible Belt of America – a place where God meets guns, traffic yields to longhorns, and TexMex and ribs are a staple diet. Even the towns have great names; you can travel to Welfare in the morning, visit Comfort in the afternoon and spend the night in Utopia. ‘Luckenbach, Texas’ was made famous by a Waylon Jennings song and is not so much a town as a gathering of buildings. Located just off Highway 290, the post office is also the general store and the saloon is out back. It’s renowned for its live music scene so we arrived in time to see the ‘picker circle’ – an improvised mish-mash of musicians who gather under an old oak tree and pass around a pick, each playing a song with the others joining in. "Da-da ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, diiinnng," the unmistakable sound of a banjo was slowly echoed by a guitar, "Da-da ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, diiinnng.” Everybody chuckled at Duelling Banjos being played, and I half expected someone to call out “Squeal like a pig, boy!” as a nod to Deliverance. Thankfully it was not to be as the banjo player ended with a flourish before passing the pick to the young cowboy on his right. He broke straight into that ol’ country classic, “Cocaine’s gonna kill my honey dead.” It was time to explore. Not far from the circle in front of a wooden building sat Cassey, co-owner of the Snail Creek Hat Co. “Howdy, y’all look like you need a hat!” While I didn’t take her up on her offer I did ask about what’s in style. “Welllllll,” she drawled, “Over yonder you can see that they come in all shapes and sizes,” pointing to the audience. “I used to be able to tell a Texan from a Dakotan just by looking at their hat but now it’s about personal preference.” She and her husband Glen use water to shape the unstructured palm leaf hats they get in. “In West Texas they angle the brim like this,” she said, folding in the sides like a paper dart. “It means the hat’s more aerodynamic and the winds just pass right on through.” Much as I was tempted to buy a cowboy hat, I opted instead to see the real thing in action, and where better than the Cowboy Capital of the World. Even the towns have great names; you can travel to Welfare in the morning, visit Comfort in the afternoon and spend the night in Utopia. Bandera, Texas, earned its moniker after the Great Western Cattle Trail drives of the 1880s, where at one stage there were more cattle and cowboys going through the main street than all the other cattle trails in the United States. More recently they’ve had a number of rodeo champions come from Bandera, which just gives extra points to their town spurs. Everywhere you look there are authentic buildings, early Americana and signs advertising the next rodeo (Friday). We were here to see the most Western event of them all – the gunslingers shootout.Every weekend the Bandera Cattle Company celebrates its heritage with a re-enactment of real scenarios from the town’s past. Taking a seat on the bleachers behind the Visitors Centre we watched as the period costumed cowboys slowly took up their positions, one drinking ‘whisky’, another playing cards, and our host, Dennis, sharing some of the local history. “God damn, that wasn’t meant to happen!” Dennis had just shot himself in the groin with a blank. It looked like it hurt. “You’re as dumb as a box of hammers!” yelled one of his compatriots to much laughter from the crowd. The show went on for an hour, with kids having the chance to be deputised afterwards. It was enough motivation for me to take the plunge and go buy some cowboy boots. After much assistance I settled on a pair of Justin’s that have been produced since 1879, “Made by his daddy’s daddy and his daddy’s granddaddy before him.” Quite chuffed with my new purchase we rocked up to our accommodation, a Texan ‘dude ranch’. There are a number of dude ranches near Bandera that offer accommodation, meals and activities all rolled into one – think of it as AirBnB meets the Warkworth Rodeo. We chose the Twin Elm “For Western Fun.” As it was getting dark when we arrived the owner pointed us towards the campfire and invited us to join her for ‘s’mores’. S’mores are a Texan treat where you roast marshmallows over a fire ‘til they’re ohhh-so-gooey and then add them to a graham cracker topped with a slice of chocolate. With full tummies the next morning we took advantage of our surrounds with a horse ride led by some of the local hands. Wading through the Medina River, past the fallen trees and down the trail, we got to experience their daily life at a leisurely pace. Bandera was also where I discovered how deeply ingrained religion is. On the way into town we noticed a number of flags at half-mast. I politely enquired when we got there, “We saw some of the flags were at half mast, has someone important died?” The lady stared straight back at me and said, “Jesus”. It was Good Friday. Moving on quickly after insulting the entire state of Texas, our next stop on the small town tour was Fredericksburg. Established by a German baron in 1846 after signing a peace treaty with the Comanche Indians, the town is considered the capital of Hill Country. Fredericksburg’s main claim to fame is being the birthplace of Admiral Chester Nimitz who led the US Pacific naval effort in World War II. The town houses the fantastic National Museum of the Pacific War and it made me proud to see the New Zealand flag flying (at full mast). “God damn, that wasn’t meant to happen!” Dennis had just shot himself in the groin with a blank. It looked like it hurt. The best part of Fredericksburg however is just outside of town. It’s called Wine Road 290 and comprises 15 different wineries in the area. In Texas a winery does not necessary mean a vineyard; it could simply be wine retailer. We didn’t let a wee detail like that put us off as we slowly pulled in to The Vintage Cellar. We’d already tried some of the local Bending Branch ‘Thinkers Blanc’ so that was a mandatory buy, but what caught my eye was the “Pour It Forward” chalkboard. Like a ‘random act of kindness’, the idea is to buy someone a drink in advance by writing up an occupation on the board. Unfortunately, no one had written ‘Parched Kiwi’ but if I’d been a fireman, marine, zookeeper or teacher it would have been a very boozy afternoon. Leaving the Hill Country the next day we noticed that the landscape had changed, speckled with political billboards. Texas is staunchly Republican – represented by Senator Ted Cruz – and even here it’s hard to escape the slogans in the midst of an election campaign. Looking around as the last of the sun’s rays lit up the wildflowers on the side of the road, we passed a “Make America Great Again” sign. Something tells me that the locals don’t have anything to worry about. This land of cowboys has never had a problem being great. Details Stay: www.twinelmranch.com Getting there: Air New Zealand flies direct Auckland to Houston (14 hours); Houston to San Antonio is a 1 hour flight; Hill Country is a 1 hour drive away Websites: www.luckenbachtexas.com www.banderacowboycapital.com Visas: Apply online for the USA ESTA visa waiver for up to 90 days Location: Hill Country, Texas, USA Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

The runway was approaching and we still didn’t have clearance. We’d reduced speed but the control tower was looming closer. Suddenly we got the green light. “There it is,” pointed Geoff, “Up in the tower”. Sure enough, a green light beamed back at us, permission to continue on the railway that cuts through Gisborne’s airport. < Back Hidden Gisborne New Zealand Herald 9 Aug 2023 The runway was approaching and we still didn’t have clearance. We’d reduced speed but the control tower was looming closer. Suddenly we got the green light. “There it is,” pointed Geoff, “Up in the tower”. Sure enough, a green light beamed back at us, permission to continue on the railway that cuts through Gisborne’s airport. Geoff was a guard aboard Wa165, the only remaining Wa class steam locomotive in the world. As President of the Gisborne City Vintage Railway, over the clack clacks he shared the history of an engine that first ran when Queen Victoria reigned. After years of neglect, it was lovingly restored by rail enthusiasts and now plies its route as one of Gisborne’s hidden treasures. “You’ll want to see this,” Geoff nodded ahead. We started to slow as the Waipaoa River Bridge came into view. Passing over the longest rail bridge in the North Island made for a vintage scene before picking up steam through the fields to Muriwai. Once the train had safely stopped it was the kids’ time – selfies lying in front of the cowcatcher and oohs and ahs as they clambered into the cab under the watchful eye of the driver. John the fireman (in a steam train sense) took me through the stats: half a tonne of coal, 4,000 litres of water, and a whole lot of levers to get the three carriages here and back. As a trainee driver, it was his job to manage the ‘run around’ – when the engine is shifted to the ‘rear’ of the train in order to lead the way home backwards. As we rumbled back to the city and scenic views gave way to urban landscape, the piercing whistle reminded cars that a 200-tonne train was headed their way. At journey’s end Wa165 braked to a stop and 150 beaming faces disembarked. Quite conveniently the railway depot is just a five-minute walk from New Zealand’s oldest independent brewery. The home of Gisborne Gold, Sunshine Brewing is a boutique brewery, pizzeria and off-licence all wrapped into one. Kahu was there to greet me, passionately explaining what it takes to create such locally-inspired drops as Life’s a Peach, Pipeline Pilsner and Stockies, before generously pouring me a tasting flight from a selection of their 20 tap beers. Spilling out onto the patio was a melting pot of jandals and John Bulls, mullets and bangs. Spilling out onto the patio was a melting pot of jandals and John Bulls, mullets and bangs. Piping hot pizzas landed with ice-cold pints as beer-matching is an art here: Rip Tide pizza accompanied by Mahia Pale Ale, slices of Shore Break with the award-winning No Access East Coast hazy IPA. As I left it was obvious that the locals appreciate it too as ‘double dozens’ were carried off to be sipped elsewhere. Tūranganui-a-Kiwa has always had an active arts scene so it was exciting to come across Toi Ake. Located in the Ballance Street Village, its teardrop banner gave little away. Randomly popping in I was welcomed by co-founder Henare Brooking (Ngati Porou, Rongowhakaata), himself a painter, tā moko, pounamu and paraoa (whalebone) artist. “We wanted to create a hub for local artists to work from, a place where they could grow their art”. Now one of the country’s leading Māori art studios, the gallery features work from across the motu. Paintings and prints cover the walls. Carvings look down and sculptures stand proud. While the front of Toi Ake is a gallery, it was out back where the action was taking place. One of the five full-time tā moko artists was carefully applying fresh ink to a client’s ankle; the concentration was evident. On the other side of town, there was a different sort of concentration: wild stingrays. 24 years ago diver and underwater cameraman Dean Savage was befriended by a curious stingray, planting the seed for what is now Dive Tatapouri’s Ecology Reef tour. Today these kaitiaki of the ocean, sacred to the area, feel the vibrations of people from all over the world who have come to interact with them in their natural environment. Thorough safety briefing done (“avoid the barbs”), waders on and pole in hand, we entered the reef at low tide. My partner's trepidation quickly evaporated as Stevie Ray glided up beside her. Graceful, serene, Stevie Ray investigated the line of legs before being joined by eagle rays Aroha and Rachael. Our guide Matt handed out bait. “When you go to feed them take your hand right to the bottom, all the way down – their mouths are under their body.” Aroha came up to my partner’s hand and sucked the food in like a soft vacuum, despite pushy kahawai trying to get in on the action. Matt was encouraging: “Go ahead, gently stroke them if you like.” I nodded affirmatively as if I was a marine biologist. A hand went into the water and the report came back: slimy but cool. Soon it was our turn for lunch and the city’s inner harbour beckoned. Years ago, when I was wearing Nomads at Gisborne Boys’ High, the Kaiti Freezing Works was a major employer in Tairāwhiti. Today the only remaining building is a gable-roofed structure that houses one of Gisborne’s best eateries, The Works. With an industrial-meets-casual vibe that wouldn’t be out of place on Ponsonby Road, the brick restaurant is less ‘hidden’ and more ‘destination’. Like many a hospitality venue over the summer post-COVID, it has been “smashed as”, but you wouldn’t know it judging by what was coming out of the kitchen. Cradled in a halved brioche was my Pork Belly Karaage, a perfectly coated tonkatsu topped with honey soy sauce… which instantly got ‘shared’ with uninvited forks. The Orecchiette Pasta was nearly enough for two: prawns sitting atop lemon pangrattato and thinly sliced zucchini. There was no need for dessert, tempting as it looked. It’s a little-known fact that the National Arboretum of New Zealand is… in Gisborne. To be accurate, the arboreal ark that is Eastwoodhill is a 30min drive away through the Ngatapa valley. Upon arriving I instantly regretted not putting more time aside to see the largest collection of northern hemisphere trees in this part of the world. Autumn sees the 100-year-old gardens come alive, a deciduous cloak of orange fluttering upon a bed of needles and cones. Another little-known fact: it's not only the Giant Panda and Bizarre-nosed Chameleon that make the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species; Eastwoodhill helps protect over 150 threatened or endangered trees on the list. We took the Yellow Walk to see them, zig-zagging through the woodlands before the scent of eucalyptus led us to The Cathedral. Originally an outline of Westminster Abbey planted in Lawson cypress, the enchanting smell comes from the tallest tree in the arboretum. There is something soul-fulfilling in walking amongst giants and my partner couldn’t help but say hello to the trees in their native language: “Konnichi wa” “Ni hao” “Hola” ”Bonjour”. The arboretum isn’t all exotics though; there are plenty of natives for the kids to learn about if you can tear them away from the carved lion. The fading sunlight was our cue to head down the road to our final destination, Gisborne Astro Tours. Pulling up outside a paddock and a large portacabin shed, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. Our host, John Drummond (MSc Astronomy, Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society of New Zealand) strolled out to meet us, extending his hand like we were old friends and inviting us inside. As we took a seat John explained how we were in a perfect position: zero light pollution and the best view of the universe. As he started his interactive 30-minute presentation I realised that this astro-scientist was the epitome of Gizzy: friendly, knowledgeable, enthusiastic and authentic. Nebulae, clusters, supernovae, constellations - it was (excuse the pun) all so clear now. John put up with my inane questions (“Why did Pluto get demoted?”) with the skill of a science teacher and the patience of a saint. Then it was time to see the real thing. Leading us out past wool-shedding Wiltshire sheep, John disappeared through a low door before popping up to roll back the roof of his custom-built observatory, revealing two large Newtonian Reflector telescopes. This is where stargazing guests spend most of their time, marvelling at the celestial worlds before them until reluctantly having to share the eyepiece. As we were leaving John casually mentioned Gisborne Astro Tours’ Introductory Course to Astronomy: six lectures over six weeks focusing on how to use the telescope, astrophotography and solar system viewings. Humble as he was, I think it’s one part of the Gisborne experience that doesn’t deserve to be hidden. Details Getting there: Air New Zealand flies from Auckland and Wellington on a daily basis to Gisborne Gisborne City Vintage Railway: www.gcvr.org.nz Sunshine Brewing: www.sunshinebrewing.co.nz Toi Ake gallery: www.toiake.art The Works: www.theworksgisborne.co.nz Reef Ecology Stingray tour: www.divetatapouri.com Eastwoodhill Arboretum: www.eastwoodhill.org.nz Gisborne Astro Tours: www.gisborneastrotours.com Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

“Is this the square?” “Si.” The couple sitting next to me were taking in Piazza San Giovanni, picturing James Bond in his DB5, machine guns blazing as his steely blue resolve and bullet-proof glass got him out of another sticky situation... < Back From Shame to Bond New Zealand Herald 20 Jun 2026 “Is this the square?” “Si.” The couple sitting next to me were taking in Piazza San Giovanni, picturing James Bond in his DB5, machine guns blazing as his steely blue resolve and bullet-proof glass got him out of another sticky situation... Being a location for the most recent Bond movie has brought a new fandom to Matera, but long before then this southern Italian town had a very different and somewhat embarrassing past. Considered the oldest inhabited settlement in Europe, Matera’s history dates back to cave dwellers 7,500 years ago. After being constantly attacked, the troglodytes shifted across the valley to take up defensive positions on the stassi (stone mountains). It is here where they carved their homes into rock, dotting caves along the cliff faces. Their descendants lived the same way for thousands of years until la vergogna nazionale d'Italia. “We were called the shame of Italy,” rued my guide, Renato Favilli. He explained that in 1952 the Prime Minister of Italy visited Matera and was shocked by what he saw – extreme poverty, widespread disease, no electricity, human waste in the streets, and animals living with people in caves. Passing a law that forcibly evacuated the 17,000 residents to the adjacent ‘new town’, the stassi were left abandoned and decaying. Things began to change in 1993 when Matera was designated a UNESCO World Heritage site, and tourists started coming to this ancient town in the arch of Italy’s boot. “When we were named European Capital of Culture in 2019,” Renato continued, “we became even more popular!” That popularity was now heading our way, as multiple tour groups jostled for shade from the 30degree heat on the narrow cobblestone streets. Unlike the day-trippers from nearby Bari, I had made Matera casa mia for the next few nights. “ Ciao! ” bounced the effervescent Domenica, manager of Il Casale di Maria, a boutique hotel cut into the limestone of Stasso Barisano. Before she even showed me my room, she was scribbling on a tear-off map pad. “Your Google maps will not work well here. Too many streets close together’. She circled restaurants. Underlined churches. Arrowed piazzas. “ Prego! ” First up was what Matera is known for, its chiese rupestri or rock churches. Santa Maria de Idris is the most prominent, carved into a rocky outcrop overlooking the gravina far below. I put €4.50 into the ticket machine, took two steps to the right and before me was a faded fresco of Christ Pantocrator painted 900 years ago. The fact that these delicate works even exist today is astounding. Not content with one rock church I made my way to Convento di Sant'Agostino, built by Augustine monks in 1592. Domenica had underlined a church that lay hidden beneath the convent – but I needed to seek permission to see it. Poking my sweaty head into the sacrestia , I surprised a priest who kindly directed me to the left of the altar. Unlocking an unassuming door, he waved me through a carved-out tunnel, and I stepped into the small subterranean 15th-century crypt of San Guglielmo da Vercelli. Sitting in a niche was a fresco of the Holy Trinity; beside it was Madonna col Bambino (Madonna with Child), dating to 1603. Back outside my squinting eyes slowly adjusted to the low Basilicata sun, only to gaze upon what is arguably the best view in Matera. If I had prompted ChatGPT to create an ancient mountain town, with cliff-hugging roads, stone alleyways, twinkling lights at dusk, jigsaw-like houses, and topped with a cathedral, it would have created the view from Belvedere Emilio Colombo. As the moon slowly rose, I found myself on Vico Santa Cesarea in front of one of Domenica’s circled restaurants. Carved into rock with a patio out front, Ristorante Baccus offers more traditional fare than its counterparts in Stassi Caveoso. Conjuring up my best Italian I ordered Polpo alla griglia con crema di patate al profumo di rosmarino. The octopus was stunning. After mopping up the sauce with the unique and strangely shaped Pane di Matera bread, I looked longingly at the dessert menu… but settled on an espresso. The next morning I didn’t have to go far to find a local artisan at work. Concentrating hard outside his workshop-cum-shop, Pasquale was chipping away at a small block of limestone tuff. Everything inside he had carved himself and he told me he preferred to sell it directly. After browsing the uneven shelves, I purchased a small carved figurine of two cats together (who seemed to get on better than mine do). Cats are a common sight in Matera. Throughout the streets are signs announcing, ‘Here lives a Protected Feral Cat Colony’ and it is forbidden to mistreat them . For the most part the felines were just lying on the road in the sun, oblivious to any passers-by. The streets of Matera also host a surprising number of artworks, including Salvador Dali’s original bronze “Dalinian Dancer” sculpture – its blue hues matching the Materan sky – and the more contemporary The Drop, which I spent far too much time questioning if it really belonged in Matera. There was one more arrow on Domenica’s map to visit: Palombaro Lungo (long deep well). A man-made cavity dating back to the 1500s, it was one of five cisterns that was used to collect rainwater for the town. I crossed the boardwalks suspended over the colourfully lit water, in awe at a cave that had once held 5million litres of water. Making my way back to the hotel I ticked off the items on Domenica’s map, taking care not to obstruct the wheezing three-wheeled Piaggios full of tourists opting for wheels over heels. Much as they were handy for navigating the stassi, something tells me they wouldn’t have been 007’s first choice of vehicle for the ancient streets of Matera. Tips & tricks Wear comfortable shoes. You’ll be doing a lot of walking on uneven, and slippery at times, cobblestones Get a printed map to supplement your phone map – it simply won’t work at times Carry water with you, even though it is freely available Plan ahead: https://www.materawelcome.it/en/ Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

In one swift motion the taxi driver heaved my suitcase into the boot. “Do not worry, I am strong!” she laughed, flexing her biceps. Sabrina was my unofficial welcomer to Isola di Procida, a 4km2 speck of land in the Gulf of Naples. < Back Salve Procida New Zealand Herald 20 Jun 2026 In one swift motion the taxi driver heaved my suitcase into the boot. “Do not worry, I am strong!” she laughed, flexing her biceps. Sabrina was my unofficial welcomer to Isola di Procida, a 4km2 speck of land in the Gulf of Naples. The only female tassista on the island, she had taken over the taxi business from her father. “Uh-uh,” she warned jokingly when I reached for my seatbelt, “We are friendly drivers here – no need for that”. Often overshadowed by its flashier neighbours of Capri and Ischia, Procida (pron. PRO-chee-dah) is where Italians come to relax. “You come for holiday? It is very quiet here, no boom-boom-boom like Ischia. You like the quiet, no?” A traditional fishing village since the 17th century Procida is so beautiful that images of it adorn Naples Airport. Named Italy’s Capital of Culture in 2022, the island dotted with beaches and bays has two main towns: Marina Grande, where the ferries arrive from Naples, and the stunning fishing village Marina Corricella, where I was staying. “Salve!” beamed Vincenzo, the welcoming host of Callia Rooms B&B. A Procida local who has travelled extensively, Vincenzo enthusiastically explained what was nearby, where to eat, and what to see. Waiting in my room was a complimentary bottle of prosecco and much appreciated water. A few hours later and keen to explore the island I Whatsapped my new best friend, Sabrina. “Andiamo!” (let’s go) she beckoned, waving me over as she stubbed out a cigarette. Winding through the narrow streets – side mirrors folded in – we started at the highest point on the island, the fortified Terra Murata. The view from the top was jaw dropping; a picture-perfect postcard of Marina Corricella’s kaleidoscope of colour, looking out to the boat-filled bay framed by the Mediterranean Sea. Sabrina nodded with pride, explaining that the pastel-coloured houses were originally painted that way so fishermen could recognise their homes when returning from sea. Passing where the daily fish markets are held at Marina Grande, we drove east to Spiaggia di Pozzo Vecchio, nicknamed Postman’s Beach after the 1994 film Il Postino . Small and pebbled, it is less popular than the nearby black sanded Ciracciello Beach with its choreographed sun umbrellas and overhanging cocktail bars. At the southern end of Ciracciello lies the nature reserve of Isola di Vivara, an island connected by a causeway but with restricted access due to its protected status. Travelling across the island, gated villas and hidden groves began to appear, before the stone roads descended to compact houses once again. “Ciao, ciao!” called out Sabrina to two women chatting across balconies, their washing lightly flapping in the wind. Most Procidani , especially those born here, know each other and there is a palpable sense of community. “When we go to Naples, we are easy to pick out because we have a different dialect.” Following closely behind a couple of Vespas we made our way back to Marina Corricella, where Sabrina dropped me off with a cheery “A rrivederci!” . I made my way down one of the four steep stairways to a restaurant Vincenzo had recommended, Il Pescatore. Before arriving in Italy my food research consisted of watching one episode of Stanley Tucci’s Tucci in Italy , when he visited Procida for its… lemons. Unlike the mouth-puckering citrus we know, limone pane are grander, more bulbous, with the tart flavour replaced by a subtle sweetness. The waiter brought out insalata di limoni procidana (lemon salad) before masterly tossing the chilli flakes into the limon, as if it were a scene from The Talented Mr Ripley. Of course, I had to finish the evening in that most Italian way, pistachio gelato from the waterfront’s Chiaro di Luna . The next morning it was time to see the island from a different perspective. “New Zealand! I was in Auckland three times when I was second engineer for P&O,” announced our boat captain, Christian. With two other passengers on board, we circumnavigated the island over a couple of hours as Christian pointed out the caves, cliff formations and ruins that were only visible from the water. Back on land the sun was punishing. It probably wasn’t the best hour to walk up to Procida’s landmark abbey, Abbazia di San Michele Arcangelo. I was nearly tempted to have a break - “Free limoncello shot if you dance your way to the truck” the sign said. Originally built as a Benedictine Monastery, the 1000-year-old building was deserted by monks in the 15 th century due to constant pirate attacks. Later dedicated to Saint Michael the Archangel, over the centuries it has had ecclesiastical works of art, an intricate wooden box and gold ceiling, and numerous frescoes added to it. By pure coincidence the abbey was playing an even bigger role this evening - the starting point for Catholic Processione del Corpus Domini through the streets of Procida. Luckily for me the procession was to pass by Vincenzo’s Callia Rooms. School children led the way, holding up a banner for world peace, followed by clergy in yellow, red and aqua blue vestments, before the Archbishop of Benevento (who was once a pastor on Procida) came into view, walking under a four-poster canopy. Local dignitaries were next, but it was the Procida musical band, playing amongst the hundreds of faithful that received the loudest applause. As the procession stopped at various waypoints, remarks were celebrated with fireworks, colourful flashes in the night sky, sparks fading back to earth. And then there were the explosions, one after another after another wowing the procession. It turns out the Sabrina was only partly right - Procida does have some boom-boom-boom after all. Tips & tricks Procida is a 40minute SNAV hydrofoil boat trip from Naples The island, while compact, has many steep steps so be prepared and wear good shoes Sundays are still traditional, shops are closed and locals treat it as a day of rest If hiring a scooter or motorbike to travel the island, make sure your insurance covers it Plan ahead: https://www.visitprocida.com/en/ Originally published in The New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

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