A final link

Just to say that I have started to put a new blog together using Margan's account of her childhood and photos from her album circa 1920 in Yorkshire. Thank you Cherry for the typed version. It's great.

You can view it at

http://marganswords.blogspot.com/

With love

Me. Mum, and the World

The last post

So here we are at the end of the journey.

A final day in Christchurch, packing bags down to fit the requirements; trying to prepare for the long long long haul flight ahead. We are going to be traveling for close to 30 hours. The final flight being some 25 hours. I have had to ring Qantas to try and get a seat near the loo. I am dreading the imprisonment.

In the square a man ascends a ladder and starts a kind of monologue which ranges over the role of Men and Women throughout history, with some kind of quirky philosophy thrown in.

"You can either have a short happy life or long miserable life!" He declares with one hand raised. "Have a short happy life picking through the rubbish od Mombai, or long miserable life in a developed contry"

I particularly liked his slightly ecclesiastical costume; and I have to say if I had such a costume I would wear it when I'm teaching. In fact I liked his style. He semed slightly familiar to me.

So what will I do when I get home?

I'll tell you what I'll do.

I'm going to make a large lime jelly which is green and cold and quivers; and I'm going to eat it with cold red grapes and some plain yhogurt.

I'm going to get the mower out of the shed and I am going to mow the lawn, carfully, neatly, slowly.

I'm going to play the piano when the house is empty; I shall sing at the top of my voice.

I will fiddle around with the pond and maybe add a few more bedding plants round the edge; get the fountain going, watch the water drops make patterns on the surface of the pond. Maybe there will be a frog.

I will go to the gym and have a swim and long hot sweat in tha sauna; sweat out the dust of the journey.

Oh yes . . . I must make an appointment to see the doctor as well.
Here's an old old lyric for you - one of my favourites ever since I was a teenager:

"I carry the dust of a journey
That cannot be shaken away,
Yet it lives deep within me,
For I breathed it in everyday"

(Emerson Lake and Palmer - Pictures at an exhibition)


And so gentle reader, until we meet again - with love

Me
Mum
& the world

The road to Akaroa (Let the pictures do the talking)

Via Geraldine to Akaroa on the Banks peninsula. A drive like no other.

Tomorrow packing and organising.

With love

Me
Mum
& The World

Akaroa (Let the pictures do the talking)

Doyles

The road to Ruapuna was a lovely drive. I had the impression I was in somewhere like the midwest. Long straight roads, and flat lands. The instructions given to us by Adrienne where pinpoint accurate and by mid afternoon we were in the land that Margan came from.

And what an incredible place to look at. A large flat plain which ends at the foot of Mount Peel. Mount peel with slightly misty shadows in purples, dark brown, blacks and nearly a blue colour. Slightly shrouded in a thin mist. Absolutely incredible.

I could so easily imagine a young Margan on a pony making her way down a track, dust kicked up by the hooves. Behind us as we drove a plume of white dust thrown up from the unmade road by our wheels seemed to echo that thought.

We came to Ruapuna mid afternoon, which seemed to consist of a cross roads with a small church a hall, plus one homestead. We took a few pictures and then - being slightly too early, checked their driveway, and moved on. Driving empty dusty roads that stretched for ever.

You have to actually experience this place to get any sense of it; such apparently endless roads; huge fields with big piles of stones gathered together in them in large mounds. Massive irrigation machines stretching thier matallic wings over the fields of - what was it? Kale? Maybe. A place of a different scale and space than I have ever seen before.

Eventually we drove down the long drive to Neil and Adrienne's homestead. Rang the brass bell that hung outside the door.

Adrienne came to the door, an elegant smiling lady, very smartly dressed. Then Neil thin, red faced, with some kind of mischivious twinkle in his eye. I had the feeling that we were going to get on well straight away. And we did.

I was installed in a what Neil described as the "The dog box" - actually a rather nice little room (en suite) off the garage.

We had a few drinks and nibbles on a verandah and I marvelled at the Garden which sported a pond to make mine at home look like a puddle, a white sculpture nestling in a shaped border, lovely trees.

This was the house where Grandma Doyle lived, (that's my Great Grandmother - I think). Neil is Mum's second cousin (again I think). The family tree came out - (the one drawn in a criclular fashion) and although I could see myself and Geg on the map - I couldn't quite work out the relationships bewtween people I didn't know. I have a copy of this at home, and when I get back I will post it up here for general presusal. I expect a lot of you will know it.


Neil, was self effacing, but it transpired had been a racing driver. The following potted biography is from Adriene:

"He raced for about 8 years starting with saloon cars - originally just one, a highly modified Anglia, to which he had fitted a corvette motor and it went like a robber's dog! He had quite a bit of success in that and then he moved onto single seater race cars, namely a Begg Formula 5000 and then, while he was in England bought John Surtee's Formula one car and had quite a bit of success with that in New Zealand also.

He gave up once we were married to concentrate on farming, anyway he could not afford both race cars and me!!!! Just for the record, we have 2 sons, one married and running the farm and the other a helicopter pilot in Australia. Neil could now be best described as semi retired from the farm as James is pretty much the manager."

After a lovely evening drinking wine and eating local mutton, an evening laced with laughter and fun I retired to bed very peacefully.

In the morning we were taken by Neil to a house down the road and (as I understand it) this is where Margan lived as little girl. It belonged to Edward. It's now lived in by a woman called (approriatley) Liz, and the Garden has been worked on and cultivated into a labarynthian set of lawns and trees with borders all around. Lovely.
Again I could imagine Margan wondering around (not the same gardens - they are later) here, sitting under the porch, I could really imagine it.
So it was a really good meeting and I felt that it was the drawing together of the journey, and as we left the Doyle's and headed west back towards the sea I was so glad we had come all this way.

Hondo and Sachmo

One day we decided to walk to a bar that Mum had read about in The Lonely Planet, it is apparently called "Sachmo's" and on a Sunday afternoon they have music and do gourmet pizzas. What a good combination.

So despite the rather long walk we set off with hope in a=our hearts and knowing that there was a good sit-down and food at the end of it.

The walk took us along the Avon river northwest out of town. It was a beautiful walk with lovely weeping trees bending over the river in dignified silence. Reflected in the shimmering water.

When we had walked the whole length of this particular road with no sign of Sachmo's we found a coffee shop staffed by a young blonde woman who looked at us askance when I asked about where Sachmo's was. We were not the kind of people she expected to go there perhaps?

"Git a lung wark" she said

(Note about the NZ accent: The word "desk" is prounonced "Disk" the word "Lid" is pronouned a little like "led" crossed with "lud")

Anyway we walked back along the road still couldn't find it. Eventually we went into an Asian shop to ask if they had heard of it. There were three chineese men in there and they all whipped out maps and started to look at them and discuss in hurried Chinese our request. This went on for a long time and mainly I could only see the tops of there heads (balding mostly).

One of the men seized the Lonely Planet book and deciphering the text announced: "I find" and marched out of the shop with the book and and therefore us following. We knew the address and had been up and down the street ourselves, but in his opinion we just had not looked hard enough. We arrived in the street and he stood there lookingat the numbers and then said

"Maybe it this one?" pointing at what was clearly a domestic house.
"No I don't think it is" I said "Its the wrong number anyway."
"I ask" he crossed the road into another domestic garden where a man was minding his own business smoking a ciggerette.
"Never 'erd of it mite" the book was put closer to the man's eyes and the question was asked again.
"No Mite. . ."

Undeterred the man walked further along the street. I asked him his name "Hondo" he said, and what was he doing here? "PHD in agriculture" and with that he was up another driveway to knock on a door. This man was not giving up!

After a long conversation with a confused man at the door of his house he came out of the Garden again "Maybe this?" he indicated a Garden Centre.

It took me sometime to get the Lonely Planet back off him and then we walked back to town quite exhausted.

I feel it's safe to say this man WILL get his PHD and is probably still enquiring up and down the street in search of Sachmo's

The Gondola (Cable car)

We took a couple of buses to a cable car which took us up to 500m (1500ft) above sea level over the 945 meters. On a clear day there would have been 360° views extending over Pegasus Bay and the Pacific Ocean towards Kaikoura; as well as over the Banks Peninsula. Below nestles Lake Ellesmere and Lyttleton Harbour.

One of the main reasons we went there is that in reading Margan's account of her childhood in New Zealand she describes how they left NZ from Lyttleton harbour. As the ship set sail and left the shore they realised that they had left all their trunks and cases on the bank. Margan's Dad was outraged and an angry but there was nothing they could do. So on the voyage, Mum says, the other passengers went through thier belongings and found material and made them a new set of rather peculiar clothes.

It reminds me of "The Hunting Of The Snark" by Lewis Carrol

There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:

His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,

And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,

With his name painted clearly on each:

But, since he omitted to mention the fact,

They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because

He had seven coats on when he came,

With three pairs of boots - but the worst of it was,

He had wholly forgotten his name.

(This interface won't let me get the spacing right!)

At the top of ride as well as the usual visitor centre selling plastic Tikis, All Black Rugby shirts, and stuffed Kiwi toys, it was possible to go out and walk around a path.

It took me a while to realise the scale of what I was looking at. The whole lake / sea when you look down on the harbour is in fact a huge crator from a massive ancient erruption that threw up the hills around the water. Where the water is the hole that was left by the erruption. To appreciate the size that this must have been yu have to actually be there. It staggers belief.

Me

Mum

& The World

The dyslexia exhibit

We were walkng round Christchurch and came across this intresting and unusual thing; an open air sculptural garden to promote understanding of dyslexia. The sculpture in the photograph says "The boy who could do better" which is more or less what all my school reports said. There are some seats; and when you sit on them an audio system is triggered and you get information about dyslexia.

The figure is reading a book, and the words flow out of the book and around the garden. The words themselves are crammed together and almost overlap. You can read it but its a bit confusing at the same time. It's outside the New Zealand institute for Dyslexia.

Christchurch and Sumner Bay

Where we are staying is a quiet little place on the southern edge of Christchurch called Sumner Bay. It's quiet, sunny, there are a few restaurants, and a bar called "The Thirsty Mariner" of which I've already written. They bay is full of surfers and the water glistens in the sunlight silver and blue and green. The Surfers look like seals as they paddle out into the waves, sometimes lost completely from view in the dip between thew waves, then suddenly appearing from the waves as if they are sea nymphs. Very cool.

Yesterday we met someone I used to teech called Emily. She has moved out here, and coincidentally lives in Sumner Bay, we arranged to meet in town and sat on the street tables of a cafe. She is about to be 24, she tells us, and she describes how she's working with video and photography and doing a lot of surfing. I try to imagine what it would be like to be 24, taking pictures, surfing, living in a house overlooking the ocean. I can't do it. When I was 24 the world looked very different to me. Good for Emily!

This morning we walked along the Esplanade in Sumner, watching the surfers, and eating ice creams. Now I've come into town on my own to sort out a car rental, organise the weekend, and mooch about. Mum is back in Sumner Bay, making a parcel of bits and pieces to send back to UK to try and cut down on luggage. I think she's happy and OK, but today as I left for the bus I had sudden doubt that she might not be.

So I'm here in the Cathedral Square of Christchurch, it's busy in a gentle sunny way, people are puzzling over their next move in public chess games, there are people eating hot dogs and pastries, and drinking cappucinos. Seagulls and sparrows edge cautiously closer hoping for crumbs, a busker sings a range of well known songs ("Wish you were here", "Dirty Old Town" "Father and Son") as well as some of his own. There's a street entertainer (a Glaswegian) being tied up in a straight jacket and over head I hear the raw of a jet taking off; where in the world are they going in that thin cigar tube?

Soon we will be doing just that, and I realise that we are already nearing the end of the journey. It's in our minds - that's why Mum is making a parcel, and why I am aware of the jet.

The sun warms the slabs beneath my feet, and the world keeps turning.

To Christchurch

We caught the train down to Christchurch, the one that goes along the coast. The landscape changed again as we went inland; reminiscent of a European agricultural landscape. Another spectacular ride.

Christchurch itself had a wide airy feel, as we drove through th streets in the early evening towards our hotel for the night.

The Windsor Hotel is an interesting rather Victorian looking building, with very substantial woodwork and rather grand banisters. The was an extrmely friendly and bustling man called Donald who bustled us up to our room, after a very swift briefing on the downstairs facilities.

We shard the room, and had were issued with white bath robes and slippers to skuttle along the corridor to the facilities in. We went out for an Indian meal, and as I sat there I had a portent of misgiving about the choice of cuisine.

Anyway back to the Hotel and I went out looking for a bar. I found a place specialising in Belgian beer. But I didn't get to drink much of it. My gut got me and I was back to the hotel for total immersion.

Not good.

Next morning we went round the Christchurch Arts Centre which is an interesting new building with curving glass walls and sculptures. We saw some work ny the famous NZ artist Rita Angus see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rita_Angus which I enjoyed a lot - particularly her later water colours.

The next day we moved down to the Sumner Bay Motel where we arrived tired and sleepy. I cooked in our rather small apartment. Later I went out and in an irish bar I was beckoned over by a group of oldish and rather drunk people who took my appearance as being quite Irish enough for me to join them in their St Patrick Day's celebration. There was a couple with quite a lot of tension going on between them and when thy left I found myself talking to a man who used to be a vet, a drummer, and had a degree in theology. A good bloke.

I have written some emails to people who are related to the family and still live in the area Margan grew up in. They have asked me to phone them - so I will and that will lead us to another chapeter.

With love

Me
Mum
& The World.

What a ride

We had planned to go whale watching by boat yesterday but the trip was cancelled due to bad weather. BUT . .

This morning . . . well as you can see . . . we had the fantastic and magical experience of a helicopter (helix [hele] wing [copter]) ride over the Pacific ocean to see Whales and Dolphins. I was doubly transported. It was like being on a magic carpet. I have been in helicopters before but never sitting right next to the pilot and always before to do with filming. To just sit there and watch was fantastic. That man has the best job in the world. And he knew it. I have (I;m sorry about this being a bit nerdy) read about helicopter flying and I was intrigued to see what the pilot was doing as much as the whales.

The sea floor drops dramatically down only about 1 km off Kaikoura to a depth of around 1Km, so the Whales can consequently come very close to shore, allowing us humans to get to see them relatively quickly. The ones we saw were sperm whales. He told us that these toothed whales can actually swallow a small shark whole! Can you believe this? They send out a very loud "click" and this wave of sound (as well as providing echo location) is so powerful that it can temorarily stun the victim and give the whale time to to accelerate into the kill.

The feeling of hanging in the air in this most improbable of machines watching the most incredible of creatures was just brilliant. I felt so calm and happy. Happy at the beauty of nature and the creative inventiveness of humans.

I just had to tell you that before I go to bed. Now I must go and get the washing.

Me
Mum
&
The World.