mrbrianking

People tell me that the South island of New Zealand is nicer than the North. If so, we are in for a treat indeed, when we take that ferry on Tuesday. We have spent the last five days driving around the north island and I can tell you, it’s beautiful. Heading out of Aukland, we stayed by the bay and followed the coast around to the north east. Narrow winding roads that hug the shoreline and twist and turn with every stoney beach and cove. Very like the west of Ireland, but with sunshine and heat.
  
After a few hours of coast road, we take a short cut. This, as we all know, is rarely a good idea and normally ends in tears. We take a short cut inland, to cut out a long loop. Into the dark interior. Into the forested unknown. Into the hills. The road climbs steeply, twisting all the time and becoming smaller and smaller. And after a while, there is no hard surface on it. It becomes a dust and gravel track. Being the intrepid travellers that we are, (for intrepid travellers read, idiots), we carry on. Suddenly, we come to a small area to park and a sign that says, “Waterfall”. Pull over, park, out of the car, and off down a small forest track we go. We are rewarded with the loveliest pool and waterfall, deep in the woods, in the company of some young hardy swimmers, taking a break from their “Wicked” camper van. Yeah, we always knew this was the right road. 

  
Cathedral Cove was a great find. One of our “Wicked” swimmers suggested it, so we seek it out next day. The small car park was busy but, just as we drive in, someone prepares to leave, so we score a spot. The walk to the cove is about half an hour’s hike along a wooded coastal track. Very pretty in it’s own right, but the real prize comes at the end. Cathedral cove is a beautiful place. A nice swim in the warm rolling waves, tumbling and tossing. 

  
New Zealand is a volcanic island and in places, the hot magma is not far from the surface. This means natural under-floor heating for National Parklands, mountain passes and beaches. Yes, beaches with hot sand and hot water springing up and flowing to the sea. At Hot Beach, people rent a beach spade for five dollars the day, and dig holes in the sand, which then fill with hot water in which you can sit. Well you can sit if your bum is made of asbestos. The water is so hot in places, it would take your skin off. I tried walking across the sand where the water trickled out, and nearly lost my soul. No, not my soul, my sole. Yes, my sole! Nearly lost my sole. My soles. Both of them. 

  
On to Rotorua tomorrow. 

Do you remember fax machines? Yes, fax machines. Before there were iPhones, before there was instant digital messaging and when email was in it’s infancy, there were fax machines. Messages were written on paper, put into a fax machine and transmitted over phone lines, to be reproduced, on paper, at the receiver’s end. It was high tech. In fact it was state of the art. I’m reminded of fax machines because I am sitting on an airplane. Why is that, you might ask and rightly so. Well years ago, when there was less digital and more clackety clack, I worked with a gentleman called John. John travelled a lot for business and when he sat on airplanes, he had nothing better to do than sit and think. Think about all manner of schemes and projects and methods of handling projects, (most of them harebrained), that we might pursue. And when I say “we”, I mean “me”! So he would sit on the plane and fill copious sheets of paper, with all manner of crazy leads, suggestions and instructions, (mostly the latter), which, as soon as he landed and had access to a fax machine, he would send to me, to follow up. I came to dread those days that followed John’s departure and arrival at some far-off exotic spot. I also learned to decommission the fax machine, to coincide with John’s flights. 
I’m reminded of it now, because I’m sitting on an airplane. I’m sitting on an airplane and thinking, and my mind is wandering back over the last two weeks and my first visit to Hawaii. A visit of contrasts, peace and bustle, sunshine and starlight, mountains and sea. A time with friends, a time for relaxing, a time to absorb the heat of the sun. Yes, I know that’s not what my readers from the storm swept coasts of the north Atlantic want to read, but there you are. The heat of the sun it was.

   
 Kauai was peaceful, rural, delicious. We strolled the beaches, we sat out to watch the sunsets and the night skies, and we walked the hills. We watched the high rolling waves crash and the surfers ride and crash with them. We watched the blowholes spout and splash, and the whales rise and dive. We swam and snorkelled and drank beer and ate ice-cream and warm fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Kauai was delicious.

   
 Oahu was bustling and exciting. The Pearl Harbour centre is fascinating, sombre and teeming with interest. It is not only a museum, but a historical monument, memorial and tomb to many servicemen, lost in the great Pacific conflict of the second world war. By contrast, the resort area was full of colour, laughter, splash, music and fun. We filled our days with water-slides, pools, hot tubs, food and drink. We did manage to slip away to see Waikiki beach and to climb the volcanic cauldron of Diamond Head, to it’s summit at 760 feet, for stunning views over Honolulu, Waikiki and right across the island to the eastern mountains.  

    
 So I’m on a plane thinking. Thinking about Hawaii. Thinking about the friends and the fun and the novelty and the charm of it all. And, I suppose, thinking about the future. The next step. New Zealand. Yes, I’m on a plane, going to New Zealand. Happy memories behind. Great expectations ahead. Aloha.

 

Being a small island in the middle of the Pacific ocean, Kauai gets its fair share of high winds and big rolling seas. Nothing spectacular about that, from a local point of view. It may change schedules for beach visits or whale watching boat trips, but for most practical purposes, life goes on as normal.

   
 However, in 1999, a major storm hit the island. The seas washed half a mile inland. Much of the near shoreline housing was destroyed, forests were ripped up and beaches reshaped. That was a long time ago and nothing of the destruction remains obvious to the visitor. Except the hens! Yes indeed, the hens remain. The storm when it came, scattered the domestic fowl and sent them from their runs and sheds, unfettered and unfenced, cockadoodling to liberty. A mere hen generation later, the now wild hens set about making a pleasant life for themselves, in their own little piece of Hawaiian heaven. By now, their numbers are significant, and they wander happily around gardens, fields and roads having a gay old time. 

  
But they did lose their sense of time. Their early-morning cock-a-doodle-do timing is seriously screwed up. From the middle of the dark night, from the perch directly outside my bedroom window, from the expanded lungs of the champion-loudest-cockeral-in-the-world, comes the regular 4am booming call that would shatter the gold teeth from pirates dead for four centuries. Michael sprays them with the garden hose. He says it chases them away. Secretly, I think they enjoy it.

Hawaii comes high on the list of places I never thought I would ever get to. And yet, here I am. On the island of Kauai, to be exact. Let me paint the picture. It’s shortly after noon. I’m sitting on the porch of the house where we are staying on the south west coast. The sun is streaming across the lawn and the faint warm breeze keeps the temperature just perfect. (Yes, I know the use of the word “just” is superfluous there, but somehow it seems necessary to set off the tone of this ideal setting). When I finish this, I will walk to the end of the garden, step onto the beach and have a swim in the warm Pacific.  
There is no better spot than that beach / garden divide, to sit in the evening and watch the sun go down. Sand on your feet, bottle of beer in your hand and a golden red sun dipping into the ocean, with a green flash and ….. yes, look there, whales rising to wave it off, then splash back down to the night dark sea.

  
It’s a beautiful island. I didn’t know that it was the location for quite a few major films ….. Jurassic Park, South Pacific, Avatar and many more. Actually, I didn’t know much about the place at all, before arriving here. But it’s easy to see how ideal it is, when strolling along the gorgeous beaches, walking in the forested hills, that rise to over 5,000 feet, (yes, pretty high for such a small island), and gaze at the 50ft waves crashing onto the shore at Polihare state park. Sounds pretty good, eh?

Oh, enough of this. I’m off for a swim.

Well here we go again. We are once more at the beginning of a new journey. Or the resumption of an old. Shaking off the stillness. Taking a deep breath and a first step. Like throwing a six, and getting your counter back on the board. 

Christmas was great at home. As was new year. Just to be wrapped in the familiar comfort and warmth of family and good friends. The joy of belonging. But then comes the call of restlessness. I really must do something to quiet this need for movement. I really must. But not just yet!

JRR Tolkien, or at least one of his imagination’s issue, once said that it is dangerous stepping out of your hall door, as you never know where it might lead. Or words to that effect. In this case, it leads to Los Angeles. Just briefly. Just a staging post. Somewhere to take a days rest, meet with Vicki and gather our packs for moving on. The real destination is Hawaii. Yes, that’s where it is! The land of grass skirts, loud shirts and “Book ’em Dano”. I can’t wait. 

In the meantime, it’s another airport, another plane and another bump …. ooops, “The captain says we are experiencing a little turbulence”. Oh really? Does he? I could have told him that, though “little” might not have been my description of choice.

Never mind, I’ve just been served salted caramel ganache Gü. No, I don’t know what that is either. Not bad though. Tasted like chocolate goo. That’s goo, not Gü. Or maybe it is! You see …….. the mystery has already begun. 

Have you ever noticed, that the people who design shower fittings for hotels, come up with a different arrangement for every hotel? You check in to your room, strip off and stand naked, staring at the latest in plumbing subtlety. You pull this lever and push that one. You twist this knob and turn that handle. Then you repeat the process in the opposite order. Change the push for the turn, and the pull for the twist. After five minutes or so, you finally get water. From the lower outlet. To fill the bath. 
Now you alternately move each knob or lever in turn, in an effort to get the water to come out of the shower outlet. Up. Down. Over. Back. With your right foot holding in the main lever and your left hand pushing the upper handle, you turn the dial with your right hand. Presto! Water from above. Boiling water! Hot enough to strip your skin. Jump back in sudden shock and bang the back of your head on the hand basin. You delicately hold back the shower curtain and peep in at the steaming cascade. You consider different strategies to get your hand to the taps, without scalding your arm. In this venture, you are unsuccessful! However, at the cost of a second degree scald, you do manage to adjust the hot cold balance. It is now too cold!  
Never mind, it will do. The thought of restarting the whole procedure is far too intimidating. You step in and get wet all over. Then you look for the hotel supplied soaps. These come in three separate containers, individually coloured and unfamiliar. You are cold, wet and naked, and you do not have your glasses. Each container is identified by very small and illegibly coloured print. You turn them, lift them to the light, squeeze them, (what good is that supposed to do?), turn them upside down, and eventually, pick one at random. You wash you body in conditioner, your hair in body cream, (what is body cream?), and discard the third. 
Finally, you turn off the cold tap first, so that you get a last scalding from the remaining volcano sourced geyser squeezer. That’s when you realise that you forgot to get a towel before you came in, and it is on the shelf in the bedroom.

Los Angeles, and Hollywood in particular, is not all about film stars and the silver screen. Well, for the most part, and certainly for most visiting tourists, it probably is. But there is another side to it. We have set out, on different days, to find some of that other side.

This city was built around, on and between a number of hills and canyons. Some of these hills, despite being surrounded by urban sprawl, are completely devoid of buildings and remain open, bare and desert like. Others, have houses, singular or in groups, tucked into their folds, or wound in fenced and gardened strips, along their slopes. 

With exploration, exercise and adventure on our minds, we take ourselves along to Laurel canyon and Fryman canyon. This is a lovely hike along a dusty track that winds around the canyon sides, up and over is hilltops and through forest, open clearing and suburban road. It has shaded stretches and wide open viewing points, with great views across LA.  It goes through the grounds of the Tree Lovers Conference Centre, just off Mullholland Drive. Truly!  Of course I haven’t enirely gotten away from the stars here. I remember from the 1960/70s, that Laurel Canyon was home to many of my music heros, Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young, Joni Mitchell, Canned Heat (I think), John Mayall, etc.  Anyway, we managed to find Joni Mitchell’s house, (possibly the one from the song “Our House”). No longer hers, of course. It hasen’t been for forty years I suppose. There is a lady standing in the front garden with a small child. Definitely not Joni. We don’t go in. 

Another day we explore some of the secret stairs. They are not really secret, of course, but I do wonder just how many people know them. When the houses were built on the hills of LA, the roads serving them were made long and winding. To shorten pedestrian access, stairs were put in, along garden edges and at cul de sac ends, connecting levels of streets. They are not easily spotted, some are half overgrown with bushes from neighbouring gardens, and some are locked and no longer public. They make for fascinating walks around lovely residential parts of the city. 

We spend a few hours on such a walk near to Hollywood Bowl. Only about fifeteen minutes walk from Hollywood Blvd, with its Chinese Theatre and Walk of Fame. And yet it’s like a different world. Peaceful, residential and private. We see a poster for a missing dog. With picture. We stroll the laneways, stairways and footpaths that wind through the area. After about half an hour, we see a poster for a dog found. With picture. It’s the same dog!  We take a photo of the found poster and send it to the number on the lost poster. Not long afterwards, we get a reply saying, “thank you.  We just spoke to these people. They found our dog.”  It’s a nice finish to a lovely afternoon. 

First impression ………. This is a really nice city!  Of course the sun shines all of the time. That in itself, is enough to make any Irishman feel like he’s in heaven. But I’ve been in Calfornia for a couple of weeks by now, so sunshine alone is not enough. No. San Diego looks well. To my surprise, it’s a hilly city. Not quite like San Francisco, and of course, much smaller, but hilly. It’s a bright, clean looking city. There is an air about it.

   
   
The sea dominates. There is a large navy presence. There is also a lovely seafront area. And a Splash Tour!  Have you ever noticed that there are things that you would never do in your own town but are immediately drawn to, when away. Like the Splash Tour!  I’ve often seen it in Dublin and never been tempted. Here, it seems like a must-do. So on we hop. It’s great fun. The tour goes through the harbour area of the city and then into the water and around the bay. Seal viewing, sail boat spotting and a close up, (relatively close up), of the submarine pens.  

   

Our craft.
  The party zone of town is called the Gaslamp Quarter. So named because of, guess what. Yes, gaslamps. Actually, I’m pretty sure that they’re electric, but the street lamps are the old gaslamp structures. Anyway, the place is full of bars, restaurants, clubs and people. Teeming with people. Tourists, locals, conference attendees, beggers, buskers and barflies.  We find a good bar with live music and dancing, and a pretty wild crowd, to pass the night away. 

   
   
The USS Midway is an aircraft carrier, that has been retired and become a museum. Very interesting!  We spend several hours aboard, immersed in the lifestyle of the naval personnel who called this massive ship home, for long stretches at a time. The living and working areas are laid out, just as they were when it was an operational naval vessel. 

   
A few words from Bob Hope.

   
Well!  It’s nearly Christmas.

No visit to San Diego could be complete, without going to see the Coronado Hotel, with it’s Some Like it Hot memories of Marilyn Munroe and Tony Curtis, a walk around Balboa Park, with it’s Zoo, miniature train, artists quarter and fourteen (!) museums, and finally on to La Jolla,(not prounced jolly or jelly, I’m told), with it’s beautiful beach, warm (well not cold), and very paddley water.  Sure where would you get it?

  

For thousands of years, during sporadic flooding, water flowed into the Salton Sea basin, an inland lake in southern California. Then, after each flooding, over long long periods of drought, it would mostly evaporate. The last great flood here was in 1905, when the Colorado river broke through the irrigation canals and the flooding lasted for a year and a half. Since then, it’s been pretty much evaporating. The result is a much smaller, lower lake now, with a very high salt density. Nothing like the density of the Dead Sea, or the Great Salt Lake, but still, twice that of the pacific ocean. Strangely, the talapia, a fresh water fish from Africa, has thrived in these conditions, since its introduction here. Apparently, over 400 million talapia inhabit this lake. Happy days for the many birds who flock here, to feast on this abundance. At times, the wind can stir up the organic material on the lake bed, resulting in pockets of low or zero oxygen in parts of the lake. This kills off the fish in those pockets and so, around the shoreline, hundreds of dead fish are to be seen lying on the sandy rim. If you don’t spot them as you approach, you’ll certaintly smell them. The place has an eerie emptiness about it, and yet is very beautiful.  I’m told, that at times, it can be full of swimmers, boaters and fishermen. Today, there is just the two of us, a couple of Canadian tourists, and many dead talapia.

A short drive away is Slab City, a collection of camper vans and mobile homes, gathered in the desert. People live here in what seems like isolation from the twenty first century. They bring in their water, from where, I have no idea. They have no mains power, no shops, no McDonalds, no Dunkin Donuts. Just themselves and the desert. To this place, in 1980, came Leonard Knight. He lived in his old van and his aim was to build a mountain in praise of god. The result -Salvation Mountain. Built of bales of straw, clay and paint. He spent twenty eight years on what is really a never-ending project. He died in 2014, but his work, which in 2002 was proclaimed a national treasure, is still cared for by volunteers.

It is not far from Salvation Mountain to Joshua Tree National Park. I always thought that this was just a tree, or perhaps a park based around a tree.  Not so. Joshua Tree National Park is vast. It spans the meeting of the Colorado and Mojave deserts. On the northern side, grow the joshua trees, and plentiful they are. They are not beautiful, (well probably, parent joshua trees think they are beautiful), but they are striking. They are unique to this general area which stretches a little further northward with the Mojave desert.

  
The southern side of the park is where we go hiking. Our way is across the desert, over a stoney, sandy trail, dry as a bone, with scrubby bushes on either side. There is no great climbing or scrambling, but it rises and falls over the tops of bare knolls and the bottoms of narrow rocky canyons. We hike for a couple of hours to a spot called “Lost Pines Canyon”. A small oasis of pine trees, that seem to rise from the depths of the earth, in an effort to reach the sunshine above the canyon walls. Time for a water break and a snack, before the return to the car. The sun sets quickly in this part of the world, and it is quite dark, long before we drive out of the park gates.

  

If you have time, the way to drive from San Francisco to LA, is by Route 1, down the Big Sur and along the Pacific Coast Highway. If you care to scroll back to last year’s blogs, you’ll find some stories from that route. This year, we are short on time. The girls fly out from LA in a couple of days, so we stick to the highway. There is, however, one must-do stop. Santa Barbara. Even if you have but a few hours, here is a beautiful spot to stroll the beach, have dinner on the pier and generally feel good about yourself.  

   
   
The sand sculptor has left us a mermaid, the beach dwellers, rather than wave paper cups at us, have left us games, fun targets to throw coins at, and the sunset sparkles on the masts of the sailboats at anchor. Also, the chowder in a bread bowl, is worth stopping for alone.  

In LA, there are more joyful reunions, as Vicki meets up with her kinder. We stay at Ed and Shains’s beautiful new home in North Hollywood. A couple of days fly by. We explore Hollywood. The girls do a tour of Beverley Hills. We meet a group of Deirdre’s friends from London, who are also holidaying here. That makes for a fun night out. 

   
   
The girls last day and we go to Santa Monica beach. It’s Saturday afternoon. It’s teeming with people. Saturday people. Beach people. The pier is full of colour and activity. Of life and noise and movement. As the sun sets, we leave for the airport. A sad farewell. Off they go.