Sorry for the Group Email

Here’s an interesting fact about Dunedin: it has the world’s steepest residential street. Baldwin Street, which has an incline of twenty-two per cent, feels a little like a rollercoaster whether you drive up it or down it. We’re nothing if not diligent when it comes to seeing things that begin with “World’s largest”, or “World’s longest”, so we duly went to have a look.

And boy, is it steep. Baldwin street, apparently, is concrete on its upper reaches because on a warm enough day, tar would slide to the bottom. It’s a tempting-looking thing, as well. What would happen, I wondered, if I took my foot off the brake and freewheeled to the bottom? Just how fast would we be going by the time we smashed into traffic?

Dunedin also has a collegial, friendly atmosphere; nice British architecture and a superb Indian restaurant, whose name I didn’t take down.

Take that, notetaking.

Dunedin also has ultra-rare yellow-eyed penguins, which you can visit at the Penguin Place. Regrettably, yellow-eyed penguins aren’t the sociable, friendly little fellows Disney has led the world to believe in, which means the most exciting thing they do is – wait for it – stand up sometimes.

From Dunedin we headed to Christchurch via Mount Cook, which at a shade over twelve thousand feet is New Zealand’s tallest mountain. Not for the first time, it was pretty frustrating: we had to be in Christchurch later that day, and, although I’m no expert, I was fairly confident that climbing Mount Cook in one afternoon was impossible. We drank it in: this was our penultimate day in New Zealand, and who knew when we’d come back.

The thing is, of course, that everyone who’s been to New Zealand will tell you that the scenery is stunning. But until you go it’s impossible to really understand what they’re talking about. In reality, the scenery is much bigger, and more stunning, people can really describe. We saw mountain ranges mirrored in pale blue water, and peaks obscured by clouds. We drove through everything from chaotically bending alpine roads to desert. It was, frankly, a pain in the arse, because driving a hundred kilometres took hours longer than it needed to: every time we rounded a bend we’d find a photo spot that was improved over the one we’d just left.

We arrived in Christchurch in a blitz of rain and wind. Our tent, approximately nine square miles of canvas and fabric, blew about madly in the wind, and by the time we finished we had managed the camper-unfriendly state of pissed off and soaked.

We drove into town and, for the second time in two days, found a superb Indian restaurant. This time I’ve remembered it: if you’re ever in Christchurch, soaked to the skin and in need of something warm, visit the Raj Mahal. Look, I’ve even found the link: www.rajmahal.co.nz.

And that, sadly, was it. We lost track of the times that a co-camper would tell us that we needed a year in New Zealand to do it justice, and the more we saw – and passed on the road – the more obvious it became that this was the gospel truth. We wanted to climb the mountains, for one thing, and camp in the wilderness. When it was warmer, ideally.

Dave helped write some books over the summer. The first is Build a Better Website, which you’ll need if you’re joining the frankly rather confusing world of webmastery, and the second is The Ultimate Guide to Digital Photography. Tell your friends.