Sense mediation on the Northwest coast

I was looking at a cream-colored beach and clear green water-- the stuff of Polynesian postcards and warm, beachcombing daydreams. But I had a wool hat on, and wool gloves, because it's cold here. My senses needed to work this one out amongst themselves while I walked.

Walking the Abel Tasman Coastal Track was, as so much of what I've seen so far, a endless array of easy-on-the-eyes. I was dropped off at the start of the trail, a small hut next to a foot bridge. The bridge is set just about two feet over the sand; sand that is prone to tidal changes and is thus visited by quite a few birds looking for food. I saw a comorant (who politely relieved himself as I approached him, then flew away) and for the first time a pakeka (sp?) -- which looks something like a puffin, or a roadrunner that ran a 100 -yard dash in a 90-yard gym.

The track took me along the coast, winding up and overlooking beaches and rocks below. I was SURROUNDED by forest, chaotic growth of ferns and the native "bush". No plant or tree type seemed exempt -- I could see a line of ferns along the mountain wall to my left, only to see a misfit, dark green shrub poke its head out to see what was going on. No rhyme, no reason... just rampant and varied foilage, above a canopy and to the sides jutting leaves everywhere.

There were clearings on my right as I walked, just so I could catch a glimpse of the mountains in the distance, the lone island in the bay, and the desolate, palm-dotted beach below. Since winter isn't exactly prime time for this area, I only ran into a handful of people during the whole hike, which took about 5 hours round trip.

The birds seemed welcoming in the forest as well. One seemed to want to test me. Her inital song was one of introduction, I think -- it sounded like a cross between r2-d2 and the dinosour that eats Newman in Jurassic Park. But then the challenge began - tweet-tweet TWEET! Wait. Wait, I thought. What was that? Was that.... yes. That's Karen Carpenter. "Why do birds..."I smugly responded with the consectutive notes of "... suddenly appear, everytime you are near." Clever choice of song, little lady.
She followed me the rest of the way (at least I like to think it was her), testing me throughout with songs like "I'm a little teapot" and what had to have been "Papa Don't Preach." I never did get a good look at her though. Some artists can be so reclusive.

These prenzels are making me thirsty.

Having had enough of the cities and larger towns for a bit, I made my first stop on the South Island a small one. Blenheim is a little hamlet about half an hour south of the ferry port. I had talked to some travelers who had been there, and recommended it as a great stop -- for wine.

I don't drink wine often, but am a fan of booze in general, and couldn't pass up the opportunity to tour the Marlborough wine region by bike. I rented a bike in town, and checked out 4 different wineries along the desolate country roads of Blenheim and nearby Renwick. With mountains in the backdrop on both sides of me and not a cloud in the sky, it was a pretty amazing ride. Having not eaten, I decided to stop at a cafe that offered "Prenzels", thinking this was a quaintly modified NZ moniker for my familiar snack. But apparently Prenzels is a shot of butterscotch schnapps. I winced, wiped my mouth dramatically, and went on my way.

Note: "Grapey" is not an acceptable descriptor for the taste of wine. Neither is "cheeseburger undertones".

Just because a door has a handle on it...

doesn't mean that you PULL to open it. Apparently, sometimes you push those open. I learned that.... eventually.