Pressure of the Copper Box

Great Britain 17 Slovakia 22

If ever a nation could will a team to success then a medal would be in the bag for the GB women's handball team. So much has been written, televised, tweeted and blogged about the way the team has come together, sacrificed careers, relationships and friendships just to live out the Olympic dream.

And after the win over African champions, Angola, in the opening rounds of the test event that has been taking place all this week at the Copper Box – as the Olympic handball arena is known – anything seemed possible.

For a moment the dream of a quarter final place at next year's Games seemed a possibility, and the team, and its fervent band of supporters, walked with a new sense of purpose around the sparkling new venue that will host those aspirations in seven months time.



The teams line up before the match


But a loss to Austria on Friday meant the team was playing for a fifth/sixth place rather than a semi-final spot at this six-team test event, and it was a much more subdued group of players that took to the field against Slovakia on Saturday.

Slovakia, on the other hand, approached the match with a discipline and assertiveness that seemed to rock the GB team from the opening minute. Within the first 45 seconds Slovakia had exposed the home nation's short comings in defence and were 1-0 up and for most of the first half the GB team were nursing at least a three goal deficit. The score at half-time was 16-9.

Excellent goal-keeping by the Slovakian goal-keeper Trochotour played a big part in the visitors dominance, but so too did some sloppy catching by the GB players and some often very negligent loss of possession when in attacking positions.

There were good things about the GB performance. They won the second half 8-6 following a better defensive performance. Lynne McCafferty, the captain, played a typically gutsy game, throwing herself bravely into the path of the Slovakians when both attacking and defending, but she showed a lack of guile when falling for the Slovakian trickery, resulting in two sendings-off.





GB on the attack


Holly Lam-Moores was the shining star in the GB team. She scored five goals, was always positioned well and made good, incisive runs to set up attacks. The tallest player on the home team, Kathryn Fudge was disappointing and the keeper Jayne Mays, despite some good shot-stopping in the second half, needs to work much harder to deserve her place.

The second half saw an improvement by the GB side but the final score of 22-17 to Slovakia and confirmation that the GB side were sixth out of six, demonstrated that there is much work to be done. A more disciplined defence, stronger ball-handling skills and more intrinsic patterns of play are desperately needed if this team is to achieve it's dreams next year.

The Bonnie Clyde!

Talking to ex Decathlon champion Dean Macey before the start of the race






As nearly one thousand adults splashed, kayaked and ran their way around, in, and sometimes under, the Clyde in Glasgow, an onlooker would have been justified in asking if the lunatics had been let out of the asylum.

In truth, the Glasgow Rat Race is the latest in a series of events that are attracting the attention of a range of people, including adrenaline junkies, jaded runners and those new to exercise.

The urban rat races aim to use a city’s natural attractions to conjour up an event, based on a running race, that will allow competitors to push themselves just that little bit more than they thought they could.

The Glasgow event involved a seven-mile circular run along the River Clyde. Interspersed with the run were several obstacles. After just over a mile runners were faced by a set of steps around the base of a tower. This nicely built up the lactic acid levels in the quads and calves before a winding run through a very overgrown piece of industrial waste-land. The next obstacle was a six-foot wall, where the only option really was to hurl yourself over, hope that you made the top and didn’t slither just down the wall-face in a cartoon-like manner.

A long stretch of river-side run, into quite a hot sunshine meant that competitors were ready for a stint on the water. You paired up with whoever was nearest and hoped that you were both at least slightly proficient in kayaking. A 400-metre kayak course really separated the field out at this point as the river was choppy and the route, under railway arches, was not completely plain sailing.


Row, row, row your boat



Leaving the kayak at the edge of the river, you ran up a gangway, rediscovering your running legs as you went… only to drop to your knees to negotiate a camouflage net covering a few metres of snow. As you scrambled under the net you suddenly became aware that your knees were leaving layers of skin on the snow.

Another couple of miles and you dropped down to the water’s edge. An official instructed you to get into the water, and it was at this point you realised that the warning not to allow water to touch open wounds was redundant after the snow-exfoliation you had received just minutes earlier.

A 100-metre wade was followed by a watery, and hence sluggish, run to the foot of the iconic Titan Crane. Here you climbed onto a high wire and edged your way around the crane before climbing a cargo net back to street level.

A long run for home now, and runners agreed that the water and snow had invigorated them for this bit of the race. The run into the finishing area was uneventful but then came the obstacle finale. Competitors ran down a slip-way and were diverted into the Clyde once more. The swim back towards the bank was slow because of the water weighing your clothes down but the end was in sight.


The final obstacle was step too far for some. Moored alongside the Riverside Museum is the Glenlees ship. Competitors were guided onto the ship and then steered to a gangplank, which stood 10 metres above water level. The majority of competitors summoned up the courage to jump once more into the murky depths of the Clyde, others chose to take the penalty deck-scrubbing option.




Taking the plunge!




A quick sprint around the corner of the Museum and a run up a steeply-graded wall and then a triumphant burst through the finish tape.

The Glasgow Rat Race is one of many races that have taken place around the country and it is an ideal event for people looking to add an element of adventure to their competitive running. It is also a brilliant way to motivate people who have been building up their fitness with personal trainers or in gym sessions but need to take it to the next level with some sort of challenge.

Whitstable - more than just an Oyster Festival

Mention Whitstable to most people and the first reaction will normally involve something about oysters. The Kent town is best known for the edible mollusc, with its mythical aphrodisiacal qualities, but as we discovered over the course of a long weelnd, there is far more to Whitstable than a ‘love it, or loathe it’ shellfish.

For a start there is the plethora of very lively public houses. At a time when pubs in the UK are disappearing at a reported rate of eight every week, in Whitstable town centre there are many thriving establishments. By far the most iconic is the Neptune, sitting out on the shoreline and with front row seats for the most astonishing sunsets at the end of a sunny day. Equally, the Neptune is the first line in defence against biting easterly winds, driving rain and crashing waves. One word to the wise, while the Neptune is a great drinking pub; it is certainly not a gastronomic experience.


The Neptune stands guard over Whitstable


Oysters etc

For authentic Whitstable food, the visitor cannot go far wrong by visiting the Whitstable Oyster Company restaurant at Horsebridge on the harbour. Here a visitor can eat oysters that have travelled no more than 100 metres, fish that were swimming in the estuary just hours earlier and vegetables that have grown on the fertile Kent soil. Like many of the restaurants, the Oyster Company supports local producers, even down to the choice of wine – in this case, the award-winning Chapel Down wines, sourced from nearby Tenterden.

This is the posh way of eating in Whitstable, however. For a truly back-to-basics, pick-your-own experience there is nothing to beat going down to the quay and buying fish and shellfish direct from the Crab and Oyster shed. Or just a bowl of seafood from Wee Willie Winkle.




The fish market

The harbour market, right next door to the fish market, is testament to the local population’s desire to promote local sustainability. The little cabins house artists and artisans, selling a range of goods from cakes, cheeses, jewellery and art, which even includes a Royal Academy artist.

Whitstable Central

Whitstable town centre is a strange mix of eclectic art and tacky seaside paraphenalia. The little artist’s galleries, the Cheese-Box and the wine shop on Harbour Street are all examples of the lack of uniformity in the shopping area. But then, incongruously, there is a Costa Coffee, and you have to wonder what the owners of the numerous, and very good independent coffee shops, have done to annoy the town council.

The coffee shops and restaurants are a huge draw for locals and visitors alike. Windy Corner Stores, on Island Wall is a fantastic example of a coffee shop that bucks all trends. A large range of national and daily papers are scattered on the front table, available for all customers to read.

The coffee at Windy Corner is great and served in a range of mugs and cups, so the question ‘tall’ or ‘grande’ becomes immaterial. The breakfasts are expansive and full of choice. The only rule is that portions will always be enormous.

Tea and Times is another coffee shop, and this attracts a younger set. The two-storey building is home to a range of magazines and books that can be browsed as you enjoy the coffee, teas (a huge range) and cakes, including a strange but tasty custard and apple cake. Most of the customers seemed to be budding writers, scribbling furiously in notepads or tapping away on lap tops as they drink herbal tea or double strength macchiato.

Further up the high street, Samphire does all things for all people. It is a high class restaurant in the evening, serving delights such as Kentish beef, salsify gratin and salt marsh lamb, but it reverts to café during the day time.

To counter some of the eating and drinking, we went on a 10-mile walk to Herne Bay and back. We were tempted to book a place on the Greta – an old Thames Barge that has a heroic past as one of Churchill’s ‘little boats’ that helped with the Dunkirk evacuation, and now sails visitors around the Medway.

The Oyster festival gets into full swing towards the end of July, and this is the event that has put Whitstable on the map. Thousands of visitors flock to the Kent town, and it is amazing that it has managed to avoid becoming a victim of high prices and weekend-only residents as a result. Much of the charm of Whitstable is the fact that it continues to be a working port. The fact that a view across the Medway is hindered by a huge aggregate store is a blessing, and possibly the reason that wealthy Londoners have not yet bought up every fisherman’s cottage and artist’s gallery.

The occasional Ferrari and Porsche suggest that the London influx has begun but at the moment Whitstable retains its rustic charm, and rather like oysters it is a place that will stir wild passion in some and a steady aversion in others.

A Tasteful Experience

Michel Roux Jr, Marcus Wareing, Atul Kockhar - the food gods were out in force at the eighth Taste of London Festival in Regent's Park. The beauty of the Taste Festival - whether it is in Edinburgh, Birmingham, Belfast or Norwich - is that everyone gets a chance to try food prepared by some of the best chefs in the UK, and in many cases the world.




Marcus Wareing explains how to boil an egg

When a snack involves a Wagyu beef burger or a soft-shelled crab, or a suckling pig with black truffles, then it really is foodie heaven. The top London restaurants - Le Gavroche, the Cinnamon Club, Petrus, Maze, Skylon - you name it and the chance is that it is there. The chefs also put in appearances (with the exception of Tristan Welch who was missing from his own masterclass), and are very happy to talk to visitors. The biggest crowd of adoring foodie fans were to be found hungrily hanging onto every word offered by Michel Roux.
And it is not just the chefs and restaurants. Also on display were a number of producers - bread, honey, mozarella, cup cakes, ice cream - all on display and handing out generous free samples. My favourite was the black and white pudding supplied by Irish company Clonakilty.




Where there is food there is drink, and there really was plenty. From rum enhanced by Angustura Bitters to Laurent Perrier Rose champagne - there was something for everyone. We went to a Laurent Perrier tasting class, hosted by a slightly seedy-looking journalist, whose claim to fame was his marriage to a top executive from TK Max. The tasting was okay, although in no way comprehensive, but the food matches for the champagne quite briliant. Carpaccio of Sea Bass with an endive to go with a 2002 brut, grilled prawns with the Rose.

The high end of the UKs culinary world was very much on display and will have done themselves no harm by their presence for the four day festival but the far bigger beneficiaries are the small local producers whose hard work and dedication to local food and ingredients is getting recognition at events such as these.



Enjoying the festival despite the rain

A new religion for Roujan

Photos by kind permission of Gail Parker


Nestled in Languedoc is the village of Roujan. It is not a place that a traveller is likely to put on their 'must-see' place list unless he or she gets a recommendation from a friend, but it is a place that once visited makes a return trip almost inevitable.

Not everyone 'gets it'. Not everyone would see the charm in a village with one restaurant, one cafe, two boulangeries and a pizza takeaway joint. But then that is what makes travel so special, no one person's journey is the same.

For me the of the greatest pleasures in travel is sharing an experience, such as a visit to Roujan, with people that I know will understand its essence. Among my friends are those that would enjoy the bright city lights of Paris, Rome and Barcelona; there are those that want to be besides the sea; and there are those that would want to be climbing mountains and jumping off cliff-edges. All of these things I love to do, but I also love the life and ambience of Roujan and its surrounds, and that is what this blog entry is about.

A trip to Roujan starts and ends with the accommodation. Le Couvent is an old convent that has been converted to a six-bedroom bed and breakfast. A madonna surveys the scene from the roof top and when the sun is making shadows dart against the old stone brickwork and the jasmine is spreading its scent across the gravel in the driveway there is no more peaceful place in the world.

Shade from the southern French sun is provided by an ancient tree at the front of the Le Couvent, and the thick stone walls means the rooms are cool and refreshing. Once inside, the guests will fall in love with the huge kitchen. This is where breakfast is served, and that in itself is a reason to visit. A groaning table of fruit, pastries, croissants and home-made jams hold visitors hostage each morning - there really is no such thing as a quick meal around here.




Wines weigh in on world stage

The owners of Le Couvent also own a vineyard and this provides a neat segue to the next reason people visit Languedoc - the wines. Once reviled as an alternative for water for the agricultural workers, the wines from the region are fast gaining a worldwide reputation. Nearer the coast, Picpoul de Pinet is the wine of choice. This is grown on sandy soil and is the perfect accompaniment to sea food dishes served in local cafes. Further inland it is reds and roses that dominate, and it is worth popping into a number of the wine caves and trying a selection. Due to the sunny weather and heat, the reds are deep and fruity, but the main attraction of these wines is their individuality - it is possible to taste the figs that line the fields, the lavender growing in the hedgerows and even the fennel that springs up wildly on the roadsides.

Food is the third delight associated with Languedoc. And it is true to say that even the small, family-run bistros in the tiny villages would be close to Michelin star standard in the UK. Local produce, seasonally-available and cooked with simplicity and skill means that every meal is both a pleasure and a surprise. Beef cheek is the dish that springs to mind when I think about my last trip - succulent, textured and tasty left me determined to try this one at home.



So, along with seven friends, I spent a few days in Roujan. Le Couvent was a religious place, the madonna serves as a constant reminder of its Catholic past, and I believe that these days there is a new religion, or spirituality, among people who journey there. Le Couvent is the place of worship, the hostesses are the mother superiors, the kitchen table is the alter and the chatter of friends as they enjoyed a feast of food and copious wine made this Roujan experience one worthy of some new religiosity.

Tao of Travel - from the world's greatest travel writer

Paul Theroux has written many books, short stories and articles themed around travel. His latest offering, The Tao of Travel, is a wise man’s offering to his followers. The book contains a mix of observations, guidance and memoirs, combined with the literary travelling tales of writers from the medieval times through to contemporary authors.

As someone who would like to think of herself as just beginning on a long journey of writing about my travel experiences, it was an absolute pleasure to listen to master of the craft.

I only started reading the work of Paul Theroux about two years ago but in that time I have devoured books like 'The Dark Star Safari, The Kingdom by the Sea, The Patagonia Express and many, many more. His latest book - 'The Tao of Travel' is slightly different but nonetheless very entertaining and a must-read for anyone with any sort of aspiration towards travelling or travel writing.

At a talk at the Southbank Centre, London, the audience were treated to Paul Theroux at his eloquent best. A question would get an answer, but that would be accompanied by a whole lot more – reminisces about people he has met on his travels, political comment on countries he has visited, and an insight into the reasons why he set off on his 50-year odyssey.

Being told to ‘play outdoors’ as a six-year-old was the catalyst to Theroux’s travelling career. Every time he was told to play outside, his travels took him a little further, until one day he went and did not return for three months.

Leaving home is the key to all travel, and Theroux is not shy of naming those authors who maintain an appearance of world knowledge, when in fact they have rarely left home. Equally, he is quick to deride those that write as hardened, lone travellers when they have taken their trip with spouses, children and an entourage of supporters.

To world leaders he suggests that the only way to get to know a country is to live at its frontier or border for a minimum of three months. Arriving at the main airport, visiting the head of state and staying in opulent hotels is no way to get to know a country or its people.

The Tao of Travel retains the best of Theroux – dryly observed insights and a feeling that this is a person who has seen into the soul of the place visited, and not always liked what he has – while introducing the reader to a host of other, sometimes unfamiliar, writings about travel.

The book also contains a list of 'dos' and 'don'ts' of travelling, including: travel alone; don't take a mobile; make a friend; and cross a frontier.

One year to go

If I wasn't ridiculously excited enough about the Olympics, then my visit today to the Olympic Park served to do the trick. I decided to walk the four miles from Liverpool Street Station to Stratford to get an idea of the local area.
It is economically deprived, the housing is shabby, shops are boarded up and the whole area from Bethnal Green to Stratford has a tired feel. That said, there is a cultural mix of people and a sense that change may be just around the corner. And, indeed it is. A stones throw from the social poverty a glittering showpiece is slowly growing. The Olympic Stadium, the Amish Kapoor monument, the Aquatics Centre, the velodrome - they are all becoming iconic sights on the east London horizon.
At the same time, the ODA design team have put a lot of thought into the bigger picture. The road, rail and waterways transport system will allow a new ease of accessibility to the east end. The miles of walking and cycle paths hits the governments active people agenda. The acres of grassland, meadows and wetlands create a green haven and 4,000 new trees will add to the landscape.
Economically, new, affordable housing, alongside new private housing, a new school and the huge Westfield shoppin centre will all stimulate employment, training and the local economy.
As a sports fan I was blown away by the facilities, as a person who loves exploring London, I cannot wait to revisit the walk from Liverpool Street to Stratford in a few years time and marvel at the difference this legacy will have left. Well done to John Hopkins and his team for having this vision.

Wine on Waiheke

A 35-minute ferry ride from Auckland is the 25-kilometre wide island of Waiheke. First populated in 950 AD by Maori explorers, it was not until the 1970s that the island became the lifestyle choice of Aucklanders who wanted a break from city life. The very nature of those city immigrants meant that Waiheke developed a bohemian and hippy-like lifestyle, characterised today by the numerous artists, sculptors, writers and potters who live on the island.

Also in the 1970s the first winery sprang up – Goldwater Estate opened for business in 1978. It is now into its second generation of wine growing but it is no longer alone – there are now more than 30 vineyards scattered across the whole island, producing some of the best wine New Zealand has to offer.

Many of the vineyards have larger operations in other, world-renowned wine areas of New Zealand, such as Marlborough or Hawkes Bay, but many have brought their ideas from Europe, or have developed iconic wines that reflect the island and its temperate climate.

Lance Blumhardt came to Waiheke from Nottingham, England, more than twenty years ago. He set about finding a place in New Zealand where his family could settle. After many false dawns, he settled on Waiheke and the Jurassic Ridge vineyard opened in 2002. Its wines are now regular winners of medals in competitions across the region, the North Island and the whole of New Zealand.



Hard work - Lance Blumhardt at the end of a long day

Blumhardt was a neurology professor at Nottingham University, and it is easy to spot his clinical, scientific mind at work in the wine production process. Minute detail goes into the careful blending of grapes, the thoughtful production of unusual wine, such as the award-winning Cabernet Franc, and the artwork on the bottles. To spend twenty minutes in Blumhardt’s company is to have your eyes opened to the passion that is poured into every bottle produced on these small but perfectly-formed vineyards.

Jurassic Ridge vineyard is so called because it sits on a layer of rock. The soil is thin in places, with hard ground close to the surface, but much of the original rock has been converted to clay minerals. As Blumhardt produces all of his wine under strict organic conditions and with as few chemical processes as possible, then that mineral influence can be tasted in the wines.

A different operation is the winery at Mudbrick. Here the visitor is confronted with manicured beds of lavender, herbs such as rosemary and thyme and many varieties of lettuces. These are all used by Swedish chef, Andreas Lindberg, to produce a stunning array of sea food, meat or cheese platters. A sunny verandah offers visitors the chance to take in the views while feasting on a platter and washing it down with wines such as the Mudbrick Viognier, produced on the island and tasting of honey and apricots.

The black shiny rock that is found in patches across the island is the namesake of Obsidian vineyard. This is a small, family-run operation that produces a range of Bordeaux style wines, the favourites of which are Weeping Sands and the Obsidian vintage.

‘Rather risky and aged claret, which is definitely not to be trifled with,’ is the warning to imbibers of the Summer Aphrodisiac, produced by Miro. The knowledgeable bar manager explained that Miro was so named as it was Maori for ‘berry’ but also to reflect the Spanish influence that gave a unique touch to the operation that faces down onto Onetangi Bay. A Gaudi-esque seating is in the process of being developed and the eating area had artwork that would sit easily in a Spanish

The menu is tapas-based but the wines are an eclectic mix of European-inspired and very solidly reflecting the attitude of the islanders to their wines.

A rose wine, the only one on the island where the grapes are grown specially, has been obviously developed based on the light, easy-drinking rose wines of Provence in France. Meanwhile the Summer Aphrodisiac hits the senses like an All Black in full flight.

An interesting side-product is the Madam Rouge aperitif. Soon to appear on the shelves of supermarkets and wine shops in the UK, this drink is a Merlot-based liqueur that can be drunk neat or mixed with soda water to produce a refreshing summer long drink.


Madam Rouge at Miro

Miro is also family-run, as are most of the vineyards on the island. Casita Vosper is the brains and driving force behind the operation but her doctor husband works on the vineyard in his spare time and both their son, who is training in engineering and their daughter, who is now a journalist, help out when needed.

Casita is in the running to be crowned North Island’s Restaurant Personality of the Year, and watching the bubbly, middle-aged woman work the room on a busy lunchtime, enviably managing to bring a shabby-chicness to leggings and a woolly jumper, it was easy to see why she was in the running for the title.

Never forget... Anzac Day in Whitianga, New Zealand

Anzac Day in Whitianga
It was early morning, still dark and pouring with rain. But silently, in their twos, threes and small goups, they gathered. Old men in uniform, medals shiny under the street lights, old women in macs with their umbrellas pulled low over their faces. A father, holding a toddler in his arms, a mother anxiously wondering if the kids she left sleeping soundly would remain peacefully unaware for the next half an hour.

Teens in sloppy tee shirts, ignoring the fact that they were getting soaked to the skin, curious tourists, the ubiquitous cameras around their necks. All gathered together under the few trees, just a few metres from the war memorial and the four young guards who were standing stiffly to attention on each corner of the cenotaph. On a road, just away from the main crowd a mini tourist train had pulled up with the inmates from the local care home, wrapped in blankets and half hidden by a tarpaulin to keep out the rain, but nonetheless determined to pay their respects

A murmur suddenly went through the crowd. A lone bagpiper could be heard. People nudged each other and all heads turned towards the sound. Eerily, the sound broke through the dark and then, from around a corner, the marchers came.

Leading the way was the commander, proudly aware of his duty. He called orders, perhaps without the snap of earlier days but still with the authority that age brings. White-haired, ram-rod straight of back and carefully memorising the order of events, he led the assembled group of navy, army, airforce, firefighters, scouts, cadets and school children through the procession.

The vicar - a small, matronly woman, who unleashed a powerful singing voice when it came to singing the anthem, said prayers. The commander stumbled over a couple of words as the service moved on but regained his composure quickly. As the prayers remembered the fallen New Zealanders, the familiar names of the theatres of war rang out across the blue-black sky – France, Italy, Crete, Africa, the Pacific, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan and of course Gallipoli, the most tragic event in Anzac history.

The crowd stood silently, heads bowed. The soldiers gazed stoically ahead, one young female cadet raised her eyes skywards, fighting back the emotions. A woman in the crowd dabbed her eyes, an old man turned and slowly walked away.

The haunting sounds of the ‘Last Post’ played out and the rains continued to fall. One-by-one people stepped forwards to lay their wreaths – the Commander called out the names of the regiments or organisations they represented, except in the case of one man, who quickly popped his wreath down and with a shake of his head and a small smile signalled that he wanted to remain anonymous.

The national anthem broke the sombre occasion. People sang with gusto, united in their determination to remember the dead or those serving with an uplifting tune. And then, as the Reveille played out, the crowd dispersed – going back to their breakfasts, their runs on the beach, or just back to their beds. Pleased to have paid their respects but carrying the slight guilt that they would never, really be able to repay the debt.

And six hours later, as they gathered at the local pub, the laughter replaced the sadness, jollity rang out across the still wet streets and there was almost an embarrassment that once again they had become part of a pathos and ritual that has not diminished in the last ninety years.

View from the summit

Two hours south-east of Auckland is the coastal town of Mount Maunganui. The focal point of Mount Maunganui is the feature for which the area is named. Towering above the beach resort, the mount stands 232 metres high and is 3.2 kilometres in diameter around its base. Parts of it are easy level inclines, which allow the casual walker to smell the aromas of the trees, flowers and herbs that are growing but, at other points, the incline is so steep that it takes even the fittest person’s breath away.

At the very top of the mount there is a stunning view across the Pacific to the east; to the west is Manatakana Island; and to the south, the town of Maunganui.

The residents treat the Mount with a mixture of reverence and commercial interest. On the one hand, early mornings see people heading up the Mount in droves, sometimes walking, sometimes jogging, sometimes just walking up the mountain and meditating at the top. But then, in downtown Maunganui, the shops carry names such as ‘Mount Sushi’, ‘the Mount Surf and Ski’ shop, and ‘the Mount Pharmacy’.

Surfer’s Paradise in the Pacific
The beaches are a surfers’ paradise. Split into two long, sandy expanses; challenging, lively waves roll up the beach and all along the roadside are spaces for the ubiquitous camper vans to park up and dispel their blond-haired, sandied-bodied athletes, clutching surf boards and never quite able to tear their gaze from the distant horizon, in case they miss the big waves.

In the town itself, the residents go about their business with energy. Each house is immaculate, with well-tended gardens, clean wooden verandas and flowering pots that add colour to the balconies and window boxes.

In one garden an eighty-year-old woman wields a chain saw to chop down the thickened branches of an over-grown rosemary bush. In another, a young mother plays catch with her toddler, throwing a beach ball, both of them laughing as the ball bounces gently off the toddler’s head, her arms grasping at empty air as the ball falls to the floor. Along the beach-front, men and women of all shapes, sizes and ages jog or run, enjoying the feel of sunlight, salty air and muscles stretching and releasing before they go about their daily business.

But if the visitor is conned into thinking that this is some health freak paradise, there are the usual characters who prop up the diner, the burger joint and order everything with fries and extra large. They just don’t appear on the sea front before 10am.

The town of Maunganui has three main areas. The east-facing beach has a road running parallel. Near the Mount, bars and cafes offer fresh fish, cold drinks, gelatos and coffees. As the road winds out of town, houses and apartments replace the cafes. Architectural masterpieces of glass and wood jostle side-by-side with bungalows and chalets that are stuck in the 70s and 80s, their local owners grimly hanging on, despite the inflated offers from the city dwellers seeking their idyllic weekend getaway.

Idyllic setting
Two small islands sit a hundred metres off the shore. When it is low tide, it is possible to walk across the sand to the island. At weekends, brides and grooms sit on rocks as a photographer flits around taking shots that reflect the romance of the day, the situation and the venue.

Bits of washed-up driftwood provide the furniture to the scene. Photographers stop and spend hours getting the perfect shot in the perfect light. Dogs cock their legs up the whitening bark and children clamber over the obstacle, their imagination turning the wood into ships, motorcars or fortresses.

The second and third areas are in the town itself. Two blocks from the beach is the strip of cafes, bars and restaurants. These are interspersed with expensive little boutiques selling the latest fashions, plus locally-crafted and highly over-priced locally-crafted jewellery. This is the area of picture postcards, luxuriously long breakfasts and dreams of aspirational lifestyles. It is here that the middle-aged couple talk of leaving their sales jobs and opening a coffee shop. Young newly-weds picture walking on the beach hand-in-hand while their toddlers play in the waves and the sixty-year-old man relives his youth as a surfer and rock-god.

And then you move in town. Here is the gritty reality of life in New Zealand. Oil companies, timber companies and fertilizer distributors dominate the industrial areas. Woolworths replaces the chic little food stores and cheap, practical clothing is sold in the mall.

This is the scene of the Chiefs rugby union ground, the local sports club and the motor racing track. It is where the locals come on a Friday night to watch their teams, wash away the week with Tui beer and tuck into ‘battered savs’ a saveloy sausage in a batter stuck on a stick. It is here that the mullet remains the hairstyle of choice and the body type is either flabby and over-sized or stunted and stick-thin.



Café culture in Mount Maunganui

Down on the sea front, from Marine Parade to Oceanview Road there is a selection of cafes and restaurants, all serving a range of coffees and sea food. It is here that a visitor can perch on a stool, order a locally-caught fish dish and wash it down with some of New Zealand’s citrusy sauvignon blanc. It is also where things cost the most.

Take a turn inland and hit the numerous cafes as they serve coffees and cakes, freshly baked spinach and feta cheese filo pastries and enormous fruit-filled muffins. Until noon there is a choice of brunch items – Eggs Benedict, pancakes with banana and bacon, mushrooms on toast. The emphasis is on local, sustainable and independent. There is a sole Starbucks, but it stands forlorn except for those tourists who search for something familiar before they pluck up the courage to venture into the unknown.

As with everything in life there is extraordinarily good and unbelievably bad. Café 88 is in the former category – small, intimate, friendly and with a range of products that would tempt a saint off a diet.

Ambience in 88 is the key. The décor is artisan, slightly graffiti-styled and totally cool. A blackboard is peppered with messages from across the world and in this small, independent, non-corporate setting is an ironic pile of Coke cans.

The coffee culture is only three to four-years-old in New Zealand, but boy have they grasped the concept. Flat whites are the coffee of choice and the intricate patterns formed on top of the foamy milk seem to reflect the Maori fern etchings, rather than represent the US and UK influence on coffee drinking habits.

The worse end of the Maunganui café culture is to be found in the coffee shops that try to bring a hint of somewhere else. The Swiss-styled Chalet and its neighbour Ambrosia were poor. In trying to bring a European feel to the New Zealand coffee scene these two cafes fell somewhere between the two and fared badly for it. In a land with so much to offer, there is little need to pretend to be anywhere else.

New Zealand - land of the long cloud and 'amazeballs'

When our friends Janna and Kyle invited us to their wedding it was a no brainer that we would go. The wedding invite was enough to seal that decision. So along with my partner Dawn, and Kate our mad friend from Australia, we decided to combine the wedding with a road trip.
The venue was Mount Maunganui, a 28-hour flight away in the middle of New Zealand's North Island, so the very least we could do was book three weeks off work and get planning.
We decided that the best way to get the true flavour of New Zealand was to choose two or three areas we wanted to visit and then spend a few days there, rather than rushing manically from place to place.
The wedding at Mount Maunganui was the first port of call. From there we moved up the North Island to Clevedon, then on to Waiheke Island, then on to the Coromandel and finally to Auckland.
I have divided the trip into themed chapters, which I will add over the next few days. At this stage it is enough to say that we had a great time, we had a lot of laughs, we had a few goodbyes (tears), we met some fab people and, as Kate would say, we had an 'amazeballs' time.