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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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