Noddi and James go hiking

A few weeks after I arrived at the farm, Noddi turned up in a black and white cheetah pattern head scarf and upped the fashion ante. Since then we have shared many baths and decided to go hiking in the Cobb Valley, in the Kahurangi National Park.












Pete and Steve, who live at Autumn Farm, drove us along the windy road up to the Cobb Reservoir which is used to power a hydroelectric scheme.

The first day we walked up Bullock Track to Lower Junction, where we followed the Takaka River to Upper Junction, taking the Flora Stream past the Grid Iron Rock Shelters. I was sad that we wouldn't have the opportunity to sleep rough in this fantasic construction built under an impressive natural overhang.

Reaching the Flora Hut by about 18.00, we finished the day with a tough assent to Mount Arthur Hut with incredible views over the Nelson Bay. We ate pasta and dried vegetables and chilli and drank a quarter of a litre of whiskey. I dreamed of trekking axe murderers and jumped at every breaking twig.

Next morning we rose early to climb Mount Arthur, dumping our backpacks for the last 200 metre's climb. The views were incredible - uninterrupted 360 degrees. Nuts and raisins on the summit in a rough rock shelter, we decended to our bags for noodles and tea.

















Tracking north west towards Gordon's Pyramid, the weather closed in. Mist and drizzle obscured the views as we trudged across exposed high grassland and windy ridges. Occasional breaks in the clouds gave lucky magic glimpses of astonishing beauty.


Descending in the rain to the Salisbury Hut which we shared with two rather ancient Kiwis in shorts with 1960s canvas camping gear and a Dutch guy who worked in computers. The rain came thick as we arrived at the hut and took advantage of the welcome shelter.

Next morning the rain had cleared a little, and we set off across Starvation Ridge and Tableland - miles of open land where local men hunt pigs. Passing Balloon Hut mid morning, we climbed a dramatic and exposed hill to Lake Peel, where the rain and wind picked up and we were happy to make the final decent to Myttons Hut.














Myttons Hut is a delight - abandoned by DOC (The Department of Conservation) many years ago, the hut has been lovingly maintained by enthusiastic volunteers. Charming, and rustic, Noddi and I celebrated the chance to dry out by drinking all the remaining whiskey. I became blind drunk, and was shocked into a sober state only with the arrival of three men with guns.

Up early, we continued the decent to the Cobb Reservoir and Trilobite Hut, and skipped round the westen end of the lake to follow the Cobb River valley upstream.


We passed several abandoned huts on the trail. This one was dripping with moss and fungus. The hut book listed a few people who'd stayed the night. Five hours of beautiful tramping through a dramatic valley, I saw my first stag. We arrived at the Fenella Hut in time for the skies to open into a rich sunny afternoon. The air was cold, but the sun was bright as I lay in my sleeping bag bathing luxuriously in the heat, relishing the chance to drive off the last memories of damp. Noddi made me tea as I dozed.

The Fenella Hut is named after a girl called Fenella who died in the 1970s when she and her friends were sleeping in a back country hut which got whipped up by the wind and blown off a cliff. A monument to her memory, the hut is a delight - detailed and spacious, with surprisingly thoughtful craftsmanship. If Fenella the girl was as loved as Fenella the hut so clearly is, she was a lucky human being.



On our last day it rained, and our food was running low. Four hours of rythmic tramping, one leg in front of the other, through a wet curtain of precipitation and boggy terrain, we surprised a group of healthy looking pensioners - American and New Zealanders - who were cooking up a stew in the Trilobite Hut. We must have looked a state as I limped round in my blistered and bandaged feet in a scabby old pair of long johns and a stinky vest.

We were so happy to see Pete and Steve arrive with club sandwiches and a dry car ride home.

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Map images courtesy of Department of Conservation, New Zealand. Maps used: Mount Arthur 1:50,000 260-M27 and Cobb 1:50,000 260-M26

How do you solve a problem like a Cunt Face?

Yesterday was Peter's birthday.

Peter's favorite line from the movie The Sound of Music is when Maria has a meeting with the Mother Superior, who asks her:

"What is it you can't face?"

Unfortunately, the Mother Superior's thick Austrian accent renders the line to it's clear original intent:

"What is it you Cunt Face?"

We celebrated Peter's birthday by dressing all his party guests in wimples and leading a chorus of "How do you solve a problem like a Cunt Face?"

Noddi Cooks

Bathtime - There's always room for two

There are two baths at Autumn Farm - one inside in the communal bathhouse. The other is a "Kiwi bushbath" - cast iron bathtube set over an open fire.


noddi and pete in the bath

I've have read about cannibalism in the South Pacific and a traditional Kiwi bushbath can, if you are not careful, be reminiscent of being boiled alive.

Bathing has become my favorite hobby, the major focus of my leisure time. Never before has one man taken so many baths with so many people. Save water and share a bath with a friend !

noddi and james in the bath

Springtime at Autumn Farm

Autumn Farm is 10 acres of heaven. My life here is so peaceful and fulfilling. Mornings are spent working in the garden - digging up bamboo, pruning trees and hedges, chopping and stacking wood, weeding, mulching beds and laying turf. Tea at 11am brings the team - and Peter's stepson, wife and child who live next door - together for tea and coffee.

After lunch, I spend my time reading, taking baths, laying in the sun or hiding from the rain. Internet access is sporadic and my phone is off the hook.

Paradise.

My body is feeling the change as fifteen years of sitting at desk give way to the gentle rigours of garden labour.

Autumn Farm is run by Peter and Pete.

Ferries and buses

Wellington, early morning. The sky is heavy with rolling grey clouds as I stumble, overloaded with baggage, to the ferry terminal. The boat is lined in beige molded plastic and safety notices from another age. It seems, like Greece Islands, New Zealand is a retirement workhouse for first world ferries. I eat compusively to stave off the feeling of seasickness welling up inside.

Picton passes me by as I hop from boat to bus. The road winds in ever sickening circles through mountains denuded by overenthusiastic loggers.

I find new ways to use my diaphram: like a new law of physics, the circular motion of my stomach set up as I rolled across the Cook Strait, seems to spin ever faster on these spagetti roads.

Yearning for the stillness of the shady side of a church in the country. A grateful hour in Nelson as I change buses offers a welcome lull.

The final leg is a bus trip over a hill all the way to Takaka - a small town squeezed between two national parks and the location of Autumn Farm, where I hope to spend the summer.