Sunday 17 April 2016

Ups and downs of North Island

Autumn reached North Island at the same time as I did. It rained for the full day in Wellington so I went to the museum which had a great mix of natural history, anthropology  and art.
I rode up the old highway . It used to be the main road but now moss grows down the centre and farmers  use it to shepherd  flocks of sheep to shearing, or mating or new pastures. This road brought me up to the historic towns of Hastings and Napier. Demolished by an earthquake in 1931 they were rebuilt in art deco style.
My plan had been to ride around the eastern most section of New Zealand, but the constant hills and a forecast  of constant rain caused me to head over the mountain pass from Gisborne to Otopiki where it was sunnier, but still hilly.
I could bleat on about the hills, but that would be boring. Instead I have written my complaint in the form of a poem - see below.
The best part of this ride was the Coromandel peninsula, a varied and volcanic landscape east of Auckland. Riding from there around the Firth of Thames was bliss. Nothing was happening, apart from nature. No industry, no farmers, no traffic, no hills, just blue sky, birdsong snd tranquillity.
Flying from New Zealand to Chile messes with your brain. I took off on saturday evening, spent a night on the plane then immediately  arrived in Santiago on saturday afternoon. Crossing the dateline is weird, and my diary only has one space for saturday 16th.
The rain is lashing down in Chile, causing much flooding. There is snow on the mountains. I only planned my ride as far as New Zealand, I thought it would be presumptuous to plan this far ahead. All I know is that I must ride northwards, into the sun, into the summer, into the Andes.

Poem:                     So Inclined 
From coastal town to coastal town,
how can you ride more up than down?
You climb and climb and climb some more,
surely this breaks some geographical law.

Some times  when you reach a crest
you stop and eat and drink and rest,
Back on the bike for a flatter section
then the road resumes its upward direction.

 A loggers truck is caught behind,
down to first and to a grind.
Then acrid smell of burning clutch,
for this monster the climb's too much.

Looking down, past forest green,
a rail track meanders serene,
from whence you've come to where you're aiming at,
the train finds a route that's flat.

This road builder checked his map a lot,
joining hilltop to top in a dot to dot.
A rider doesn't mind an honest hill,
but twenty or thirty is a bitter pill.

A secret thought between the two of us,
maybe I'll stop and catch a bus.
But I can't have that attitude,
in the Andes altitude.

1280 sheep, the farmer told me.

Nightine in Napier, art deco capital of the southern  hemisphere

Men fishing for flounder in the Firth of Thames

The beach was mainly made from shells