A Round Trip To Cook Strait.

Friday 11th April, and friend, Wendy on her day off, picked me up from Marguerite’s and drove me the 44 km to Emerald. The GEM theatre there is small and intimate, and I felt comfortable on its stage. Along with the Thai meal that Dave, the organiser, treated Dominic and I to before the gig, this one-off 3,082 mile round-trip concert began to justify itself and continued to do so later into the evening.

The view from Le Cafe, Picton.

First thing the following morning, and after a brief stay at David’s house - an abode whose interior may possibly have had some order to it, though not easily identifiable with the naked eye - he very kindly transported me to Tullamarine airport for the early flight back to NZ, this time to Wellington.   

Another delayed flight; another $80 excess baggage charge. I was met by Ruth and Gerard Birnie, a great couple who seem quite dedicated to all things “folk”, and who have organised tonight’s house concert at their home in Paraparaumu on the Kapiti coast, north of Wellington. 

I confess, this was not an easy gig for me. I’d describe myself as a semi-insomniac, regularly waking after about four hours, and very often not being able to get back to sleep. The accumulative effect, especially when on the road is often challenging. So lots of travelling, a lack of ZZZs, and the effects of a steep descent into Wellington airport on my ears* left me in a kind of shaky, dreamlike, detached state of mind, not so good when faced with twenty three people in someone’s living room. 

*I should make it clear that I did not actually descend or land on my ears; that, of course would’ve probably meant the cancellation of the house concert.       

      

It was good to see friends and familiar faces in Ruth and Gerard’s front room, one of the more notable being the presence of singer/writer/guitarist Helen Dorothy; an artist with a pretty unique take on things, and I’m a big fan of hers. 

Thursday 20th was the ferry crossing across the Cook Strait, and possibly the worse rain I’ve ever experienced in my life. This, coming from someone who lives in the north west of England is no small statement. Yes, many times I have witnessed rainfall of such intensity, but not of that intensity for that length of time - maybe eight hours. It was a real, full-on tropical storm. The ferry departure was delayed by two hours, then when at sea we got thrown all over the place. In the midst of tumbling baggage and crashing sounds in the cafeteria area the order came over the Tannoy from the captain to remain seated, along with the warning that conditions were about to get even worse, thankfully a forecast worse than the actual outcome.          

Easter weekend is now approaching, and the next stop is Le Cafe in Picton, a lovely café on the waterfront. Features of the evening were: a semi-functional PA system (we just about got away with it); brilliant beer; Peter, the very amiable Swiss proprietor; and finally, the chap who announced to me that he was from Preston, and who - once I’d stopped playing - embarked upon a journey of endless reminiscences. I tell you, you can take the boy out of Preston, but you can’t take the boy from Preston out of Picton.

Picton.

Easter Friday, and if you thought the alcohol licensing laws were bad in Britain, try coming to New Zealand. Thought I’d buy me a bottle of wine to take to this weekend’s festival; OK, for those who know me better, I hold my hands up, yes, two, possible three bottles if I’m to be honest. The thing is with Good Friday they - the authorities - might want to consider some kind of name change. My point being that the values of “good” and “bad” are quite subjective; let’s say, when it comes to the resurrection, if it actually took place, then yes, that’s good. But I’d go further than that, in my view there’d be just reason to call it Fucking Amazing Friday. 

With this same line of reasoning, if you want to, say, buy wine - the very stuff that he, the crucified, converted from water, without any apparent fermentation process (or oak ageing, as I can gather) - then it really is quite an unfortunate Friday. Never mind, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of such offerings  when I get to Waipara where the festival is situated.

Peter and Mary drove me to The Canterbury Folk Festival on the above mentioned Friday. We took the inland route, not the coastal road, this was due to landslides after all the rain on Thursday. With talk of the coastal road being cleared maybe soon that afternoon, we were taking no chances; this meant a journey of six or seven hours, as opposed to the three or four down the coast. We left Robin, friend and part of the entourage, but driving separately, in Picton. Setting off much later, he chose to take the coast road; his and our arrivals were virtually simultaneous.   

The festival site was at the Boys Brigade Centre, Waipara, in the heart of some of New Zealand’s most prolific wine producing regions. I was surrounded by vineyards - ironic, I know. On arrival I was shown to my room. My heart sank when I saw the bunk bed. Forget en suite, the bathroom is shared and halfway down the corridor. Oh, it’s OK, I’m just a little tired. I’ll get used to it ... and get used to it I did. 

I also came to understand how alcohol can indeed be produced in the most unlikely of ways. Perhaps I’d been overheard, I don’t know, but having made a few mutterings on the subject of NZ’s Easter prohibitions, imagine my surprise on the Saturday when entering my room to find a bottle of 12 year old Glenfiddich on the table. Then, an hour or two later there’s a knock on the door, and it’s Robin bearing a gift in the form of Shiraz. Later this was followed by a further bottle of red, materialising quite magically, again on the same table as earlier; all of these events conspiring to challenge the skeptic within me!             

        

The whole weekend was one of the most spiritually rewarding times, meeting and making friends with some of the very best of people. It was the richest of experiences.

The Good, The Bad And The Purgatory.

A scenario you’d think I’d have mastered by now, but in truth something I’m not getting any more used to. There is much about “leaving” that pulls and tugs on the heart strings, challenges the emotions, and gives pause for reflection. 

Today, Thursday, and it’s not so much the sentimental aspect of departure that’s an issue, as the anxious one. The suitcase is packed, the guitar secured in its case, the backpack fully loaded, and then there’s me, convinced something crucially, vitally important has been missed. If I were leaving a house that was inhabited, then it wouldn’t be so bad, but this house - like many I’ve said a final goodbye to and have had to leave locked behind me - is non-re-enterable. Once that front door is closed there really isn’t any going back.

So I put the luggage outside the house, placing the guitar case against the door so it doesn’t inadvertently close, and I do one final check; bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room, washing line, then back outside, where again I stand a while and look at my luggage. I do have my passports, money, don’t I? - of course I do, for Christ’s sake, how many times is that I’ve checked! 

I look again at the guitar case, and can’t recall putting a guitar in there. Opening the case up - sure enough there’s the guitar.   

Right, the time has come to commit - never been too good at that actually - however, it will have to happen at some point. But I’ll have just one last final look through those rooms. And so it goes on. You know, it’s amazing I actually get to go anywhere.     

So, let’s see, what exactly has happened between the Camembert pie and Wellington? - Wellington being my present location. Well, a great deal has happened, and a great many miles have been covered as it happens.   

Thursday, as stated was a day of leaving, Auckland in this instance; and also a day of arriving, Melbourne in this instance. I want to say that the journey - after I had finally found the courage to close the house door - was the trip from Hell, but I’m a realist, and it couldn’t possibly be a trip from hell - both in reality, or even metaphorically. There are much worse things that can happen in life. Given the three biblical inferences available, and with Heaven not being relevant, it leaves Purgatory as the closest option. 

It began quite smoothly with a shuttle bus that arrived at the house - the house I was going in and out of - and a female shuttle bus driver who not only played football (when not driving), but who, after I’d mentioned I was from Preston in the UK, remarked, “Don’t they have a team called Preston North End?” I was impressed. I told her about the recent death of the legendary Tom Finney, and that she should keep an eye on the Division One play-offs this year. 

My football playing driver did mention to me that I should make sure exactly what was included in my Virgin Australia flight ticket, as often, food, drink and more are considered to be “extras” and not part of the original deal. I assured her that the “multi-stop” arrangement I made with Singapore Airlines had the same conditions applying to all the included flights. She said, “Oh, OK, no problem then”. And here endeth the good part of a soon downhill journey. 

Auckland International airport, and as I exit the shuttle and proceed to the check-in desks the bad part begins. 

Check-in looked easy at first glance, just a case of sticking the passport into a scanning machine; pressing the appropriate buttons to state I’ve packed my own luggage; two bags to check-in; might even change my seat while I’m at it. What’s this? - it’s telling me I have to see an assistant. On acquiring the help of an Air New Zealand woman it becomes plainly apparent that my shuttle driver’s prophetic words were, well … prophetic. 

The extra item of luggage - the guitar - was to cost me $80 to check-in. There was no chance of a seat change. And sure enough, food and drink was not included in the ticket. The charge for the guitar got to me big time, I’d gone to great lengths back in the UK to learn what Virgin Australia’s luggage policy was, and even phoned the company about it; they told me I had to go through the company I bought the ticket with - Expedia, which is what I tried to do, but there’s only so long you can spend on hold, and their website was no help whatsoever. Eventually I found some information that led me to believe the airline had a single weight policy, as do Singapore Airlines. 

I was wrong, and considering that if I had been able to pre-pay for excess luggage it would’ve been significantly cheaper. I felt as though I’d been fleeced. Soon becoming philosophical about the whole affair, I proceeded to the gate, and I waited … and continued to wait. Fair enough, the departure would be delayed; you can’t get too phased about that, there’s no point. 

On board I find myself squeezed between two seats. The amount of space seems very limited and unpleasant, but what the hell, this was only to be a four hour journey - so I thought. Approaching Melbourne there came an announcement, “This is your Captain speaking, because of low cloud at Melbourne only one runway is in operation rather than the usual two, and due to a build up of traffic we will remain in a holding position until permission is given to land. I estimate another forty five minutes before touching down. Apologies on behalf of Virgin Australia and Air New Zealand for the delay”.

When the plane finally lands we are something like an hour and a half behind schedule. Again, there’s nothing you can do about these things, so best just take it in your stride. Now to baggage claim - Carousel No: 2, and a good forty minutes of waiting before another announcement - not the Captain this time, though a voice with an equally apologetic tone, ”All passengers arriving on flight NZ 852, there is congestion in the baggage handling area and we apologise for the delay. Your luggage will be with you shortly”. The word “shortly” is pretty adaptable I guess, and in this case it meant another half hour. 

With one very long line to the exit, the customs officials were just waving everyone through - they didn’t even check my golf shoes. Approaching 12 midnight (2 a.m. Auckland time) I was greeted by Marguerite, who’d been waiting close to three hours for me. Just as I’d begun experiencing a diminishing will to live, we walked towards the car park. This was when the final blow was dealt; Marguerite had completely forgotten where, in this huge parking area, she had left the car. 

I followed her upstairs, downstairs, in and out of elevators, before suggesting I stay in one place, and she can come to get me on the re-discovery of her vehicle. She found the car, came to get me, and we travelled another forty five minutes to her home in the Melbourne suburb of East Malvern. 

A very tough day’s travel, but once at Marguerite’s everything gets easier. Tomorrow I play the one show I’ve come to Australia for, and I’ll tell you a little about that later.

Who Ate All The Pies?

Well, I’m on the second of my four days off, although strictly speaking it’s more like three days, the fourth being a travel day on which I head for Melbourne. 

More than a handful of people have asked me, “You’re going to Australia for just one show?”, and yes, I am, the reason being that when my man in Oz, Dominic Finley, told me of this potential gig that was part of a festival in a place called Emerald, Victoria, and he said, “do you want to do it?”, my mouth just seemed to open, and the sound, “yes”, came out. Not sure how it happened, but it happened, and being a man of my intended or otherwise word, I will be heading in an Aussie direction tomorrow.

To tell you the truth, I’m very much looking forward to it - everything bar the logistics of getting there and back; I mean, there’s the waiting, and the checking in of luggage, and the waiting, and the filling out of customs declarations, and then the … yes … the waiting … and they’ll be examining my golf shoes at Melbourne, and then again as I return to NZ. If I’d have had any sense, I would’ve become a rock star years ago, and so now be travelling by private jet. 

Speaking of golf, yesterday I played with good friend, Jim Hall, at Takapuna golf course. He’s what’s called a ‘bandit’ in golfing circles - with a handicap so high that you have to perform out of your socks if you are to have any chance of beating him. So after I’d hired my clubs, paid the green fee and bought some golf balls, with considerably lighter pockets I proceeded to play decent, steady golf, let’s say I played out of one sock, and with a stake of a dollar on the front nine, a dollar on the back nine, and a dollar on all eighteen, my pocket was a further three dollars lighter at the end of the round.

New Zealand is a country with unique and notable attributes, there are things here that Kiwis are particularly good at. That’s not to say the same doesn’t apply to many other places, but if we take Scotland as an example, if it’s a choice of … let’s say, sunshine, beautiful wine, and avocados, compared with … lets say, gale force winds, Iron Bru and fried Mars Bars, New Zealand does have notable attributes.  

Another thing they do incredibly well here is pies. And they stick just about anything that tastes good inside them, which makes a lot of sense really. I’m currently sat outside the Euro Patisserie in Torbay on Auckland’s North Shore. This hive of pie production states quite clearly on its shop window that it is a ‘NZ SUPREME PIE AWARD GOLD WINNER’. Now the one thing I’ve begun to notice is that most of the pie shops have won some kind of award or another, and I doubt if anyone actually takes these people up on such claims. Could it be that the awards are very much like the pies themselves - there are enough for everyone? 

Waiake Beach, Auckland North Shore.

The pie I just had was ‘chicken, Camembert and cranberry’, and on the basis of that alone - even if it were an award 'selfie' - I’d say it was well deserved. Of course, the only snag with this kind of food though is the calories, but it’s nothing that another round of golf won’t cure.

The Ferryman.

Waiheke Island. Artworks Arts Centre. Audience numbers are increasing by the night - and who knows, by this time next week we could be up to 30. The people  were wonderful, all of them from the staff to the punters. 

This was the first show I’ve ever done where I’ve had to keep a keen eye on the time so as not to miss a ferry - 9:30pm in this case - to the mainland. I was off stage at 9:10, and feeling rather pushed for time, courtesy of driver Renee, was at the ferry terminal by 9:25. The ferry was late.    

From the ferry by sea, I disembarked at Auckland to be met by Anne-Marie who ferried me by land to South Head, an as quiet as they come area near Helensville a suburb that sits north-west of the city. Here I stayed wth Mike and Jean - great friends and the best of hosts - for three nights. Tuesday, Mike and I played golf at South Head; Wednesday, I was ferried yet again, this time to the local vineyards - Matua, Coopers Creek and Soljans - and many a free taster was tasted.

Above and below, vineyards, and a selection of wildlife that kept me company at South Head.

Thursday was, “Back on yer head” with a trip to Hamilton. No, no, no don’t go thinking I’m making a statement about the city here, it just came out that way. Mind you, saying that, on arrival I phoned my friend Jim, and when I told him of my location he suggested that I’d drawn the short straw. So later on I mentioned Jim’s comment, in passing, to Wayne and Shelley, the couple who organised this evening’s event; that was when I learnt a new acronym: JAFA - just another fucking Aucklander.  

Last night I played in Tauranga, courtesy of Paul Lethbridge’s acoustic club. Best attended evening to this point, and I have to say, I love playing here; this was my third visit, and for me each one has been a night to remember. Paul and wife Maggie were so welcoming, and to see friends Emily, Campbell, Rosie and Simon at the gig was special. 

Journeyed back up to Auckland on an Inter City bus, took a taxi to this evening’s venue, the Thirsty Dog, and that’s where I sit and write this. I’m getting tired.

Lord Have Mercy.

Whangerei. The Old Library. Once upon a time, I think this was a new library, but not any more, not since they built a more recent one just behind it. I imagine that in years to come there will be more of them, one behind the other, with names like, "Relatively older", "moderately newer", and "a bit more recent". This was last night's venue, and now as I am writing, and sailing the seas to the island of Waiheke I can reflect on what was my second musical engagement.   

One of the most striking events of my day in Whangerei was meeting Ki, an earnest young American who took it upon himself to walk into the venue as I was sound checking. He loved the guitar playing he'd heard from outside, and when we talked he was full of deep philosophical musical analogies that seemed to indicate a search for meaning was taking place within his soul. When he spoke, whatever it was that he came out with was followed by a gaze, a look towards me that seemed to ask for recognition, a nod of approval maybe. I took to him; he reminded me of me.

   

I needed some fresh air, and the two of us took a walk. Along the way we bumped into Mercy; they knew each other. When I inquired, she informed me that she was from Galway, so I asked, "What brought you to New Zealand?", "God brought me here", she replied. That was just about the point when the three of us walked past a trance of Hari Krishna devotees engrossed in bell ringing and dance. This was turning into quite an afternoon. Maybe someone was trying to tell me something.

Anyway, Mercy talked to me all about sin, and good and bad, and how wrong other believers are in their biblical interpretations, and she seemed so lovely and so innocent, and so Irish that it was just good to listen to her. 

The concert went well, with a larger audience than the previous evening - but only just.