The Excuse

Guys, I'm sorry, but I have just enjoyed myself too much here too actually get a round to do the writing and posting the pictures and all those things I've promised. Anyway, the internet at the hostel is terribly expensive. But I've had some quite fantastic days here, just basking in the sun and cruising on the bike without any luggage, and in some ways it's a bit hard to recall exactly what I've done on which day.

It's been a little bit like summer holidays were when you where eight or ten or twelve; no responsibilities and just endless summer ahead filled with sunny days of nothing to do but frolick about, and that is exactly what one is doing, nothing and loads, going into town looking around in quaint little antique shops and bookstores with no intention of buying anything, eating ice cream on the beach, reading strange books found lost on shelves for whole days, biking around on old, unused railroad tracks getting lost, having long conversation while drinking cider and beer (now, I didn't do that when I was twelve, but I do it now) in evenings, when everybody's really tired and ought to go to bed, but nobody want's to, because we are simply having to jolly good a time.

Napier is an exquisite little city in lovely pastel shades and with and unbeliveably blue sea at it's footstep, even more so because you can't really swim there, and the beach is made out of rounded greyish stones, perfect for flicking across the water in between the surging waves. It's crammed full of boutiques and cafes and art decoish stuff, wine centres and such holidaymaking stuff.

For those abroad Napier was practically demolished by an eartquake in 1931, which caused the land to rise several metres, making a large, now lushly green flat plateau before a backdrop of undulating hills and mountains. The cities of Napier and Hastings where then rebuild in strict Art Deco, and they have kept up the style, with lovely flowery parks and water falls that are only caught out as fake because they are too idyllic to be true. Around the cities there's vineyards and orchards with rows and rows and rows of vines and apple trees and pears and what have you not of anything edible and delicious.

There's several bike paths arou d in this landscape, winding around sea shore, estuaries, river banks, by farms and through cattel pastures on abandoned rail road tracks, and it's all so idyllic I think I would either go mad living here lusting for some proper grime and dirt, or become utterly ridicoulessly blissfully happy.

Anyway, I'm planning to leave the gourgousness for an overnight trip to Cape Kidnappers tomorrow, leaving some belongings in the hostel to return Friday for an outing with a Norwegian to a pub in order the hear a band which play Irish punk music. On Sunday it's the intention to roll on down towards Wellington, which I guess will take me a good weeks time, and on the way I'll have to decide wether to take a route that takes me past the place with New Zealands longest place name, or through the old Scandinavian settlements of Norsewood and Dannevirke, and I think I might choose the latter, picking the histocial self interest.