Does every kid want to drive a digger? These two boys certainly did! When the orange cones went out on our street yesterday we knew we’d be in for some excitement. Turns out that Total Drainage was digging up a blocked sewer pipe and that they have LOTS of time on their hands while waiting for the truck to return with more gravel. Look at Milo’s smirk–he’s so pleased with himself. William was too much in awe to even mess with the levers.

I believe this playcenter face paint job was a dragon, but since we’re in NZ I’ll call him a Taniwha, a mythical monstery creature of Maori tales. In our family he’s an incessantly talking Taniwha. He’s in the phase of childhood where he will say the same exact thing dozens of times apparently without tiring, until he gets some sort of parental acknowledgment. “Those are little waves, Mom. Mom, those are little waves. Those are little waves, Mom.” He said that particular one 15 times (I counted) before I laughed. “Yes, those are little waves, Milo.”
The problem is that after I manage a “Yup, Milo, that’s true,” or something to that effect, he moves on to the next broken record phase and hangs up there until he extracts another verbal prompt from Mommy. He wasn’t early to talk and I remember friends admonishing me to enjoy that pre-verbal phase, because once he started talking all I’d crave was quiet. They were right.

We’re also in the train track/bridge building phase, and I hope this one lasts a long time. First he uses all his curved track pieces to make a spiral, then the straight ones to make a runway, and last the train bridge goes over whatever random stretch of track most suits. No worries about connecting dead ends. This morning he spent a good half hour building decorated auxiliary bridges over a straight stretch of track. Later he hopped on his bike and bade me farewell. “Bye, I going work, ‘zining bridges.” Chip off the old block.

This morning I drove up to Arthur’s Pass, nearly two hours of uninterrupted podcasts, only to find the valley shrouded in low cloud. I climbed up through the beech forest gloom, wishing I’d picked another day to walk Bealey Spur, reputedly a lovely ridge walk with spectacular views.

The lichens are spectacular in the fog. Maybe it’s the closed-in feeling or maybe it’s the gentle quality of the light, but these beech forest adornments are brilliant in the mist.

A luxury of hiking alone is the ability to stop and scrutinize plants (in this case lichens, which are really fungi and algae living together).

I’m still not sure what these pink fruits are. These tiny plants put forth a massive effort at reproduction, proportional to their size.

As I climbed the cloud started to thin and sunspots appeared, illuminating the beaches festooned with their old man’s beard lichen.

These sassy orange berries glowed in the clearing fog.

The beech forest feels a bit like home to me, at least a bit like that subalpine birch zone in the Adirondacks where the lichens bedeck the branches. Lots of greenery, makes the heart glad!

Ah, the first “cuppa” stop. As per usual, Kiwis shorten anything in language that is more than two syllables long, so “cup of tea” becomes a “cuppa.” I sat my back against a rock in the warm sun and watched the clouds thinning below as I hugged my cup of tea.

Next to me the tussock grasses were flowering, and I had time to notice.

Clouds have evaporated enough to see the Waimakariri river down below.  I could hear a kia.

Winter is coming–the Southern Alps are capped in snow, and in the shade the mud is frosty.

There now, it’s a brilliantly clear day with hardly a breath of wind. I’m glad I came.

Second “cuppa!” It’s so simple to stop when I’m hiking alone. No admonishments about cliff edges, no wheeling and dealing over snacks.

A couple weekends ago we headed out to Gough’s Bay on the southeast side of the Banks Peninsula. It’s an hour and a half drive from Christchurch, on the road past Hinewai Preserve where Hugh (“Tom Bombadil”) lives.

We had rented the old shearer’s quarters of a working farm, and as we zigged and zagged down the one-lane road to the bay I wondered again what it would be like to live in such a spot. That distance from town would be just about the only thing that would convince me to keep laying hens in order to extend weeks between grocery store runs. And I guess I’d take up drinking reconstituted milk. Our friends the Summerfields who were staying the weekend with us spent the drive contemplating the lack of guard rails and probability of meeting a car coming the opposite direction, which would have certainly been a pickle.

We arrived under thick clouds, but within an hour the front cleared and we had beautiful sunny weather for the remainder of the weekend. The not-so-fancy accommodations certainly felt better under sunny skies.

The sandy beach was hugged on both sides by cliffs, augmenting the feeling of seclusion in the valley.

We stayed in one of those little buildings down in the valley. The farmer said his ancestors (English) cleared the land, but they did leave a couple patches of old growth native timber–Matai, Kahikatea, and Totara.

This particular weekend, we were NOT working and had plenty of friends about. Ian Summerfield was turning 40 and his wife Sophie organized a party, complete with a beach fire with lots of roast meat.

The 40th Birthday plan was to cook a big salmon in a fire pit, reminiscent of a Maori “hangi,” (think Hawaiian/Polynesian feast). Perhaps an “Ug, Me Man” moment for the guys?? The big leaves of kelp were to encase the food buried in the fire pit to keep it from burning.

Kelp are impressively tough, which I guess they have to be to survive the tossing waves. With enough force their leathery hides will open in the middle, making a “fish pouch.”

There we are, fish stuffed in kelp is lovingly laid in the fire pit. It cooked surprisingly fast, we should have removed it earlier.

Landmark moment–the kids are all gathered and still. The cake is being cut.

Here’s the birthday boy (Ian) and family!

Naomi spent much of her beach time in the stroller, sleeping or giggling.

I thought the farmer said this little dog’s name was Bixy, but later someone suggested that it was Betsy (which when pronounced by a Kiwi, sounds like “Bitzy.” Whatever her name, I fell in love with her. She was happy to just be part of the group, super tolerant of the kids, she didn’t steal food, and she went with me on my runs, putting me to shame that those four little legs could hoof it up the hill faster than me.

It’s the after-dinner huddle around the fire. It fell chilly in the evenings, though the days were warm.

I got out on two delicious runs up “quad bike” (four-wheeler) tracks and out into the sheep pasture. I decided that I could be happy living in such an isolated spot provided I had one good friend in the same valley and I was farming–in other words, I had work to do there.

Rub rub rub! We’re transferring electrons, classic fun. 

It sticks! Now here’s a lesson in the danger of correlations being construed as causations: If Milo roars, the balloon falls. He thinks his roar CAUSES the balloon to come down.  Right, like Mommy making tea causes the day to start. 

The weather for the last week of Nana and Papa’s visit was reminiscent of weather reports in England….”Bright” means a thinning of the cloud cover, not actual sun exposure. “Fine” indicates that the rain can be repelled with a jacket, not drenching. We made the most of the “fine” spells around the tropical cyclone remnants that kept Christchurch soggy for two weeks.  At least the grass grows well!

One drizzly Christchurch morning Jeremiah took the crew over to Okains Bay to collect mussels and got a pleasant break in the weather. The bulk of the Banks peninsula shelters some bays from the prevailing weather (rain from the north, in this case), so much so that the sun peeped through!

Jeremiah got his love of sea food and meat gathering straight from his dad. Milo giggled as they got caught by waves while they peeled mussels from their toe holds in the rocks.

Raw?! Papa wasn’t so keen to try the drippy raw kina (sea urchin) that some Maori gatherers offered us in Kaikoura, but when it comes to mussels, that sliminess was apparently passable and he swallowed it down.

Milo’s learning from the best–he’ll be a food gatherer too one day. Note the blue sky–it was reassuring to know that it still existed up there somewhere.

New Zealand has a lot of dramatic coastline, and this bit (Godley Head on Banks Peninsula) is particularly accessible to walkers.

Nana is not so keen on heights, but this one bit of track had a rare handrail, much to her relief!

Nana’s iPad renders color so much better than our camera, I’m jealous! These cliff-side flowers are scrumptious.

Nana and Papa learned to navigate the city bus to get into central Christchurch a couple days with Milo while Molly and Jeremiah were at work. Here they are kayaking on the Avon River.

Watch out ducks, here we come!

All along the backwater through the rushes tall, ducks are a-dabbling, up tails all!

Castle Hill is one of our favorite places to take visitors. Situated close to Arthur’s pass in the foothills of the Alps, the exposed limestone boulders make a giant playground for kids and grown-ups alike.

Milo did a lot of riding on Papa’s shoulders on the short walk in, but once among the rocks he scampered around on his own two feet.

Peekaboo!

Milo gives nice kisses.

My baby’s growing up! I have a picture of her just weeks old sitting on my lap in another little “rock nest” here on castle hill. This time she could smile for the camera.

Bye Nana and Papa, thanks for coming the long journey to visit us!

It’s hard to remember that we were enjoying this weather a scant two weeks ago….

Winter has come to Christchurch this past week, while Jeremiah and his dad have been out on the west coast hunting under clear blue skies.  Not that it’s been particularly cold here, just hot-tea-misting-rain-soggy-shoes weather. I suppose after the brutal winter that’s just barely loosening its grip on the U.S., we shouldn’t complain about a little rain. Besides, as I tell Milo, the rain makes things green.

The rain makes beautiful misting droplets on the dahlias at the Botanical Gardens.

The rain makes the flowers grow gigantic!

The rain brings the autumn leaves down to speckle the ground.

The rain makes a great baking day–especially green “muffins” at playcenter.

When it’s rainy we can wear the same outfit three days in a row because no one can see what’s under the raincoat anyway.  So we accessorize. 

When it rains we can still read with Nana.

And we can collect shells at the beach.

We can visit the Airforce Museum and pretend to be a pilot in the cockpit.

Wow, we’ll bring Papa back here, when he returns from hunting.

When it’s rainy, the grass grows fast to feed the horses and make them strong, including Nana.

The giraffe’s at the zoo don’t let the rain ruin their appetites.

Our trains still run in the rain too.

And above all, the rain makes muddy puddles for splashing. What more could a boy desire?

Nana and Papa (Jeremiah’s mom and dad) came to town a week ago, and no sooner did they alight then whisked them up to Kaikoura (3 hours north) for the weekend. Jeremiah has planned out each weekend that they’re here–two for hunting and the other for a Kaikoura trip. Nana had to catch her Z’s when she could, but they recovered from the jet-lag surprisingly quickly and were game to go.

Kaikoura weather cooperated, and we enjoyed some beach walks together.

Papa is a collector, scanning the rocks for sea shell treasures.

Milo’s really into his letters these days. “What it say, Mom?” he queries. He doesn’t know how to spell much beyond his name, but he figures that long line of letters must spell SOMETHING impressive.

Milo’s got sand, Nana’s got the kids, Papa’s collecting stuff, and Jeremiah has his new spear gun and fishing kit….everyone’s content.

Everyone’s happy except the poor Moki fish…they get the raw end of the deal. Or, actually, the cooked end if you take it literally.

Moki wasn’t the only fish we got that weekend. Jeremiah brought his parents on a deep sea fishing trip, convenient in Kaikoura because the ocean shelf drops off precipitously under that calm blue water, so you don’t have to go that far from shore to get to the deep sea. 

The fishing charter pulled up a couple cray pots while they were out. We passed a restaurant sign in town advertising their crayfish (rock lobster) dinners for $83 a piece.  Imagining this unappetizing display of crusty legs and bugged out eyes to be worth $250 made it seem a bit more gourmet.

We capped off the trip with a stop at Pegasus Bay vineyard to feed their freaky eels. And no, they didn’t shriek. They do make an impressive sucking noise when they open their mouths and reach for the fish dangling off the end of the fork–it’s enough to make anyone fear for their toes when wading in New Zealand rivers. The restaurant saves all their smelly fish bits for kids to toss to the eels. We adults were at least as fascinated as Milo was with the eerie writhing critters.