Arriving in New Zealand's Capital by Cruise Ship

After our visit to Napier, we got back on board the cruise ship we'd been touring New Zealand on, The Voyager. The next two stops were the capital city, Wellington, and Nelson.

Many of you will know that I am a huge history buff. The very names conjured up visions of the Duke of Wellington and Lord Nelson, which evoked twinges of the Napoleonic Wars, both on land and, of course, at sea. Be assured, though, I am not going to witter on about these two real heroes of mine, although I could, but I would be here until this time next week.

After leaving Napier, The Voyager sailed the few nautical miles into the Cook Strait, the bit of water that separates the North and South Islands, and into the nation’s capital, Wellington. During the journey the wind got up a little. I reckon that bed was probably the best place to be. The old girl was pitching and yawing so fittings and joints were creaking with every roll. When I say the old girl, I mean the ship not my wife. In fact, I think the ship was older than me, let alone Jane!

To be honest, I am lucky in that I don’t seem to suffer from sea sickness. No idea why because when I get within hearing distance of a roller coaster at a theme park I need a bowl! On one crossing of the North Sea as a child it was so rough that passengers were sitting in the lounge, greenness creeping in around their gills, but I had had enough and went in search of the restaurant. I looked out of the window at the grey sea. As the ship pitched and rolled I could only see sea one second and only sky the next! No-one was around to serve me so had to go hungry!

The other time was coming back from the Isle of Man after a Young Farmers’ AGM, a euphemism for a glorified piss-up. The smell of vomit was everywhere but I, along with one other chap, Pete, went and got ourselves a pastie and chips. Even though the air stunk with the contents of stomachs, Pete and I still devoured our food. Maybe if some of the Young Farmers hadn’t done what Young Farmers do, that is drink like fish, there wouldn’t have been so much illness. I think the second one was the rougher of the two crossings. I don’t think the passage to Wellington came close to the previous two experiences. Now, Wellington isn’t known as the windy city for nothing.

We booked ourselves onto a city sights tour which, to be truthful, was probably too long on a bus driving past sights. We did get off the coach four times in all, I think, so probably not too bad.

The first stop was Mount Victoria, 197 metres, not even a small hill in Norfolk! It did, however, according to Jane afford us splendid views of the capital laid out before us right across to the Cook Straits and the South Island beyond.

I am not a meteorologist so have no real understanding of why Wellington is so windy. I do know, however, that one of the top attractions for locals is to go and park up near the port and watch as foreign joggers come down a hill before turning into the wind. They take great delight in laughing as the poor sods either get stopped in their tracks or, in some cases, are actually blown backwards!

The next attraction was the cable car that took us to the botanic gardens. I have always had a problem with the term botanic gardens, surely, by their nature, all gardens are botanic, so an absolute waste of a word!

It was alright, I’ve experienced better and I’ve experienced worse.

The highlight of this stop was a group of blokes playing cricket nearby. Well, they weren’t actually playing, they were practising fielding drills and that sort of thing. It was all too much for one of our confused fellow passengers, American. “Are those guys playing baseball?” she asked.

Steve, our tour guide replied, I assume whilst rolling his eyes. “No, they are playing cricket. Well, they’re not actually playing but training.”

“Why are they all black? Is it only blacks who play cricket?”

What the… I thought but kept it to myself.

“I didn’t realise there were so many blacks in New Zealand,” offered up one of her compatriots, this time a man.

What the… I thought again.

Fortunately, Steve took up the baton again. “It’s actually the West Indies team. They are in town to play the Kiwis tonight.”

An American man sidled up to me. “I can tell you were shocked by my compatriots’ ignorance. It was in your face.”

“Was it that obvious,” I replied.

“Yeah. I’ve spent my whole working life reading peoples’ faces. My name is Miguel.” He offered me his hand.

“I’m Robert,” I said taking his hand. “What did you do... do you do?”

“I was a judge. Sorry about some of my fellow Americans. They can sometimes seem a little brash. I’d like to learn a bit about cricket. Can you help me?”

“Of course.” And, every time we met up I would tell him a little more about God’s gift to man! I have no idea if he was any the wiser by the time we said cheerio in Bali.

I think the highlight of our tour around the city was the rose and begonia glasshouse. A short drive from the gardens, it soon became clear that there was one challenge to overcome, at least for a few of our fellow passengers. I really do struggle to understand some people. It is going to sound like I spend the whole time picking on Americans, but this was another example of, I don’t know, ignorance I suppose! Just bear in mind that the clue is in the title of the premises: glasshouse!

A very kindly man was explaining the work that they carried out when an American lady, don’t think it was one we had come across to date, piped up and requested that the temperature be dropped as it was hard to breathe. In fairness to her it was quite hot and very, very humid.

“I’m afraid we need to keep the heat at a certain level to protect the plants,” our guide explained amiably. There were also some succulents on show.

“Really! Why’s that?”

There’s no understanding some people. It’s like they have only just been parachuted in from another planet.

One last hurrah for our tour guide, Steve. He parked his bus outside the parliament building. The building is known as The Beehive. You’ll never guess why? Oh, you did. You’re right, it looks like a beehive. The New Zealand Prime Minister at the time was Jacinda Ardern so, it was pretty obvious but she was known as the queen bee!

Sheringham Parkrun

So you think Norfolk is flat? Well, think again.

I suppose, in the main, it is. How about you try walking or running the route of the Sheringham Parkrun. You will go away with a different view of Norfolk. I think that this is the hardest course I have done so far, to be frank, it is a beast.

If you can picture a lollipop, that is what you get here. Starts pretty well with a delightful downhill for about 1km along the stick. When you get to the bottom you realise that running down the stick is one thing, running up it is another thing altogether. The return sits in your mind for the rest of the run. That is not to say that this is the only hill, it isn’t.

There are two or three challenging inclines along the perimeter of the lollipop. The trouble is with a long downhill is that momentum builds and it is very difficult to resist the urge to go to fast, Nik had to hold me back from running into the backs of other participants on a few occasions.

The surface on this downhill is like scree and it is easy to slip. My poor old wife, Jane, took a tumble, going for a burton, close to the bottom. Injuries were superficial but nasty enough. A deepish split above the eye and a pitted hand where she tried to stop the fall. The wound above the eye didn’t stop bleeding until very late into the morning. Not nice. The friendliness of parkrun came to the fore, a lady running behind stopped to offer assistance and to walk with her for a while to make sure she was okay. Brilliant!

There are some exposed roots in places but these are not too bad. The worst bit, as far as I was concerned anyway, were the ruts that ran along the lower bit of the course. Once again, though, there weren’t too many of these, but enough to roll an ankle or two!

As mentioned, the first kilometre was downhill. This, of course, and you have probably worked this out, means that the last kilometre is uphill. It is brutal. There are a couple of courses Jane and I have done, I am thinking Holkham, close to us, and Conkers, in the East Midlands, where you start with a beast of a hill. I don’t know why, though, that doesn’t seem as daunting as having the hill at the end. I guess it is that you have already completed 4k by the time you get to it.

I used the term “going for a burton” above. I think we all assume we know what it means. In Jane’s case it meant going base over apex. There is, believe it or not, a dictionary meaning of the phrase: meet with disaster, be ruined, destroyed or killed. Maybe it is slightly too strong a term for Jane’s incident but it seemed apt at the time. The origin of the phrase seems to go back to people from Staffordshire whose local ales were brewed in Burton-on-Trent so it seemed to refer to the fate that awaited a keen drinker who had had too many Burtons. It was adopted by the RAF during the Second World War, when flyers talking about someone who had been shot down or killed would have gone for a burton. Well, now you know, as do I!

White Cane Ratings*
Car Park: very good; free until 10:30am - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Welcome: good; friendly - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Atmosphere: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Course: good; hilly, some ruts and tree roots - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Marshalling: good; - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)

*These ratings are how the event suits a blind person, and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.