Sunday 31 March 2013

A Wander Westward
When Attila the Wife gets an idea into her head it is seldom dismissed as mere fanciful whim. When she mooted the idea of a trip to the West Coast camping I knew I was doomed to jaunt westward to primeval forest, rain, sandflies (see other page) and associated camping discomfort. "Oh Jono, you bastard," you say, "... harden up. Camping is fun!" Well let me dispell that erroneous supposition there. No it isn't fun. You remove yourself from an environment of deliberately created comfort to one where you sleep on the ground, eat off plastic plates at the mercy of the elements and, in this case, other campers. There is another good reason why I find camping a chore: I was in the Army and going out into the field meant hypothermia, filth and performing tasks irrespective of season, weather or terrain (read in sleet, in heat and without sleep). Camping - I would rather have my arse sandblasted clean at a later date. Whatever I felt about the issue, we were going camping anyway.
So we bid farewell to you, Greymouth, Monaco of the West.

We departed Christchurch in bright sunlight and in heavy traffic on Thursday afternoon for a pleasant drive through Arthurs Pass toward the sunset arriving in Greymouth at our motel, Luftstalag XIIIB. The lady on the desk was very nice: "First, here are ze rules. Rule vun - no escaping. Rule two - no escaping. Rule tzree - see rule two. I trust you vill enchoy your stay. Ve haff all ze conveniences. Nice comfy betz, hot und cold running vater, guards viz machine guns and barbed vire. For you, ze war iss ofver." We planned our escape for early the next morning with a bit of sight seeing and minutes after we started doing that, we were off.

South Island Short-billed Kiwi. Not a weka.
"The thing I don't like about your driving..." began Attila the Wife gracefully not including the long list of things she doesn't like about my driving even though it is perfect and I am the most even tempered, courteous and patient driver not to don F1 overalls, "... is that you don't like to stop on the way." This is quite correct. I don't like stopping as it is counter-productive to the overall aim of getting to where we are supposed to be going expediently and directly. I also find it frustrating that her walnut-sized bladder dictates we have to stop within minutes of being able to overtake a string of campervans, logging trucks or hippies in housebusses on a road where there is only one overtaking opportunity.  Being mindful of the effort she put in to organise this trip (as she had no hesitation in reminding me all along), I promised to stop as and where she wanted. First stop - Punakaiki. Punakaiki is a one-trick pony. Fortunately this one trick is a rather spectacular formation of rocks that has baffled scientists and delighted tourists. Punakaiki is also the home of several wekas which cruise the carpark looking for gullible tourists to give them food. One such gullible European tourist asked me what sort of bird it was. My answer of a short-billed kiwi, very rare to see them out in daylight actually, seemed to surprise and delight her. I too was surprised and delighted that she chose to believe me. And so on that duplicitous note, we say farewell to Punakaiki, town of mendacity.

I have a friend from Westport named Greg. Greg is justifiably proud of Buller's rugby team which punches well about its weight. What is also rather inspiring about the performance of the Buller rugby team is its success is in inverse proportion to the dull depression that existence in the town must incur. Greg's decision to live anywhere but Westport must be some kind of commentary and it is easy to see why he does. Westport's most notable feature is the amount of old pubs it has. Sadly most of those old pubs succumbed to commercial survival of the fittest long ago. I was also surprised that the rest of the town hasn't succumbed long ago either as our arrival coincided with Good Friday, a day where Christian churches have forced society to close most of its shops and forbid the sale of alcohol on a long weekend, making Westport seem even more forbidding, dire and closed than it otherwise would have been. This had not changed when we drove through on Easter Sunday.  What Westport does not seem to be lacking is a plethora of fundamentalist churches. One of them is "FULL ON FOR CHRIST!". This seems to be the only thing full-on in Westport except for our accelerator as we charged thankfully out of Westport. And so we said farewell to Westport, town of flatulence. 

The road to Karamea is a long and windy one. It passes through a number of towns whose only saving graces include a country music museum, crystal shop (and not crystal glassware or sculptures either) and bloody great lump of coal. They also have a succession of weathered looking pubs. You may be noticing a theme here. I like weathered looking pubs and the West Coast has a lot of them. I like them so much that we actually visited one, but more on that later. We arrived in Karamea which is a country town with a sort of mystic ethereal quality that suggests that magic still exists here if only in the mind of local cannabis enthusiasts. It has no cellphone reception and does not suffer as a result. It is so remote that it suggests to me that it is the end of the earth, similar to Golden Bay at the other end of the Heaphy Track. Indeed, the Heaphy Track was our overall destination as it was Attila the Wife's intention that we run the first leg of it the next day. I told you I wasn't wildly enthusiastic didn't I? We arrived at our campsite which was as different to our digs in Greymouth as it could get. Not a shred of barbed wire in sight, no guards and only a few South Island short-billed kiwi patrolling in search of thrown tidbits of food. We got our tent up easily. I say easily, the instructions were written by the script writer for the Teletubbies and in our deliberations as to which way around the tent actually went there were mutterings of divorce, murder and imprecations through gritted teeth not to get upset with me and yes I know we're being watched. In fact all eyes in the camping ground we on us. This is one of the great camping ground spectator sports and a pastime we indulged in when other couples went through the same. We didn't disappoint our public either. Also of note, campsites tend to attract a particular kind of animal. One who is in their element dragging a lump of aluminium filled with flammable 1970's vintage plastic, rubber and velour behind their cars at 45km/h before it reveals itself in its full majesty in the campsite as their home away from home - the caravan. The owner will invariably come over to talk at you, holding a monopoly both on opinion and the conversation in general. They are always in the plot next to yours. Fortunately, our one seemed friendly enough and helped pass a few pleasant hours in the sun with some beer when otherwise there was none to be had. His knighthood is in the post.

The campsite provided a few peripheral entertainments such as the appearance of a rat running up the outside of the kitchen chimney, who we'll hear more of later, and an extremely suspicious tubby red-headed American who brushed up against Attila while she was filling water bottles at the sink. "Hullow... I'm just going to wash my plate here." he leered oblivious to the fact that Attila was already using the tap and he should have bloody well waited his turn. I would have intervened but for the fact it was obscenely comical and I can only estimate that he is the chair of his local wife-swapping society and a deacon of his church. The rest of the evening was uneventful and marked only by the inadequacy of our bedrolls: they were less than an inch thick and only served to make the ground seem harder than it was. The morning inevitably brought back-ache and the feeling that there are communal kitchen facilities in hell and they are being used by a gurning Japanese lady and her kiwi husband who cannot eat their enormous breakfasts with their mouths closed. It was with suitable disgust that we prepared for our run up the Heaphy track.

Some bastard pointing to where he's just been.
Anyone contemplating running the Heaphy would do well to heed my advice. Don't. Walk it instead. Walk it armed with a drum full of kerosene to fend off the sandflies when you stop, make sure your camera is armed and ready and enjoy the spectacular views. Running the Heaphy is all very well but it makes you sweat off your insect repellent and when you stop you'll be eaten alive. This is what happened to us and I tell you, there aren't enough swearwords in the world. When we got back it was with a sense of relief and another thing ticked off Attila's bucketlist. Also, the beer never tasted sweeter. When the beer tastes sweet, you become willfully blind to other things around you that sink below the usual standard and so it was in this spirit that we went for dinner at the local. Tired and happy we enjoyed the dag surroundings of the pub which was tastefully decorated in a style typical of 1980's country pubs that I actually rather like. The beer was expensive* and the menu provided hot comfort food at mildly horrifying prices. This was offset by the portions being enormous and the high standard of people-watching. Of particular interest was observing the local lads when a couple of local girls came in. We were extremely amused to see one of the boys' idea of a pick-up line being to kick one of the girls up the arse. It didn't work but it was worth the price of admission. We left happy campers.
*I would like to mention that Karamea is the end of the earth and thus incurs transport costs of sending beer there. While it was expensive, I'm satisfied that I got what I paid for.

We returned to our campsite for a game of cards and so I had to get some beer from the fridge. I turned on the kitchen light and saw my old friend the rat staring at me from the kitchen counter. It might have been the beer, but I missed when I swatted at him with the frying pan and he buggered off behind the fridge. I resigned myself to being unable to sort out this problem and with an unexpectedly brilliant display of delegation and cunning, I got my beer and toddled back to the tent via the camp trampoline. The trampoline had been the focal point for the children of the camp-goers and they were clustered around it fending off boredom. I gave them an offer of a five dollar reward for the kid who could bring me the carcass of the rat and an evening of brilliant entertainment ensued for them and me and Attila who watched the delighted screaming and crashing coming from the kitchen as the group of juvenile hooligans set about the futile task of bringing the rat to justice. Needless to say, the five dollar reward sits unclaimed in my wallet.
It's marble and archlike and this is just the beginning.
It actually extends 200m and is worth a look.

The hunt was still in full swing when we decided the next day to cheese it early via a quick visit to the marble arch. If you are inclined to wend your way into the depths of the Kahurangi National Park, travel through Oparara into the hills on a track that four wheel drive enthusiasts might view with trepidation until you lose hope and you'll find yourself in an incongruously large carpark at the head of a two kilometre track into the bush where there is a bloody great marble arch. It was at this point that it started to rain and our decision to bugger off home a day early was vindicated. As nice as Karamea is, there is no point in hanging around needlessly for another day of rain-avoidance no matter how entertaining it is watching a horde of children attempt to murder a rat. And so we bid farewell to Karamea, town of dreams. 

Now all we have to do is clean the (fucking) tent, clean our clothes, wash the car and put everything away.

Thursday 21 March 2013

In defence of Lunting and Tippling

Now then, that's a touch excessive.
I have to admit, I'm a bit of a lunter. In fact, I will go off lunting in search of a tipple and quite happily lunt away until I reach my tipple and maybe even finish my lunt on the way back. I do it because it is ruminative, stimulating and it matches my lunting hat. I haven't lunted in a few weeks, so am due for a bit of lunting this weekend on the way to cricket I think. Lunting is the act of walking while smoking a pipe. Pipe smoking is now seen as the preserve of the old or the eccentric and in this age of the smoking nazi, it is seen as fraught with health risks such as lung, tongue and throat cancer. Graham Chapman of Monty Python fame died of throat cancer as he was an inveterate pipe smoker. Eric Morecambe died of a serious heart condition possibly exacerbated by his pipe smoking habit but I would argue that the risk of me keeling over clutching at my chest would not be raised much higher by my predilection for going for a lunt every month of so. It isn't as if I light up several times a day or smoke cigarettes at all (although once upon a time I used to). In fact, I find having a pipe to be almost entirely beneficial if you discount the obvious snide mutterings about the smell from Attila the Wife. It gives me a moment of thought to myself, I rather like the smell and it gives me a pleasant reminder of my Grandfather who liked a pipe now and then. Get a good pipe tobacco or cigar and it will smell almost perfumy and aromatic, cigarette smoke smells like bottom (apart from Port Royal tobacco, which I think almost sits in the same class as matured pipe tobacco. It has a rather pleasing rumminess to it). I would also argue that it has more social value than cigarette smoking because a pipe smoker will only leave a bit of ash behind, not a butt that will take years to biodegrade. You also don't see clusters of pipe smokers blocking doorways, breathing all over people as they go past. Rest assured that in the BArSTewARD's mancave, it will be a smoking area and there will be a bottle of port or a bottle of whisky to accompany the experience.
Join us. Start your lunting journey here and explore a range of pipes made from briar, meerschaum and corn cob. Taste and smell the wonderful differences of tobacco matured with rum, black cherry, vanilla or cognac, ignore the approbation of your significant other and society in general. A pipe is defiant, elegant and engaging and you ought to be too.

Sunday 17 March 2013

Reasons to be Cheerful, Part Two:
I have just torn out another one to add to the list of things that can get fucked, so time for a bit of balance I think.

Monica Bellucci: 

Be still my beating trousers. Monica is not just an actress, for me she has become an adjective used to describe the most luscious, rounded whiskies such as Balvenie Port Wood and full-bodied, sultry, sexy beers like chocolate stouts. Monica is married to a bloke name Vincent Cassal who has also become an adjective for the luckiest man on earth. The thing is that as she gets older, she just get sexier. Lucky, lucky Vincent, but the world can also be grateful for the presence of Monica Bellucci.


Peace and Quiet: 

It is early in the morning and the sun has just peeped over the hills. Mist rises from the dewy grass and the only sound in the scene of pastoral delight is the gentle snuffle of the sleeping labrador, the gentle clamour of the dawn chorus and far off bellowing of neighbouring cattle. A steaming hot cup of tea sits nearby with its temperature slowly falling to optimum and while you wait you can cast an eye over rolling green hills, macrocarpa shelter belts, smatterings of oak, poplar, elm and willow and smell the scent of the earth rising. Ahh peace and quiet, when worldly cares can be stuffed away out of mind and where there is no phone ringing to ruin in, no passing traffic to annoy and no other people to complicate your moment. Bliss.

Beer in the shower:


This is not me and I certainly didn't
take the photo
It must be the juxtaposition of enjoying something cold and something hot at the same time, but there are few experiences so enjoyable in their simplicity. Obviously this experience is at its best after a day at work or after coming in from a day of cricket, tennis or golf rather than first thing in the morning. While green bottled lagers definitely hit the spot, one of my favourites is hitting the shower with a pint of Guinness: the second best thing you can do in a shower.

Saturday 16 March 2013


The pursuit of hoppiness – why life is too short to drink rubbish beer

Why?
There was a time when beer in New Zealand was intensely regional and this does not suggest variation between brews. Drinkers from Otago and Southland would be known for consumption of Speight’s, Canterbury had Canterbury Draught, Wellington had Lion Brown, further north was held by Tui and Lion Red yet taste these beers side by side and you’ll find very little difference. They are fairly bland, invariably served too cold and lack character and it could be suggested that so do their drinkers. Likewise the adherents of green bottle ‘international’ lagers such as Stella Artois, Heineken and Steinlager Pure. Why would you limit yourself to just one beer?

Mmm stouty goodness
I have been on a bit of a quest to explore beer flavours and what strikes me, and is perhaps the most enjoyable part, is the sheer variation you can get in beers. From spicy, sprucey massively hopped American Pale Ales to rich, sweet, complex Belgian Trappist ales. I have encountered beers aged in whisky barrels, beers flavoured with juniper, candi sugar, raspberries, peaches and other fruits. I’ve tried beers across a variety of the colour spectrum from pale white wheat beers across sour green French ales to the very black of blackest blackness in Imperial Russian Stouts. There is a perception that wine holds the heights of complexity and certainly there is depth and subtle variation in wine with grape variety, terrior and wine-making methods. However, when you look at wine there are only two ingredients – yeast and grape juice. Beer usually has four ingredients – water, hops, malt and yeast and all of those ingredients will be subject to geographical influence, hops malt and yeast subject to species and varietal variations. Even simple mathematical calculation suggests that four variables will result in more combinations than two and this doesn’t even begin to take into account the addition of other ingredients and beer making methods.

Mmm hoppy goodness

It is said you have to spend 10,000 hours to become good at something. I reckon I’m getting up there in terms of nosing, tasting and assessing various beers. As of this blog post I have reviewed and assessed 1,134 different beers which hasn’t even scratched the surface of the more than 250,000 different beers currently listed on ratebeer.com. It is a task that never ends but is massively satisfying. Don’t even think to ask me what my favourite beer is though. While I have reviewed a beer that is as close as it gets to perfect, the human palate is subjective to time and place, season and whim. I would happily admit to a Corona being my favourite beer after an afternoon of toil on a hot day but would also point out that in the tail end of rain-lashed autumn there is nothing better than leaning at the bar with the cryptic crossword, a hunk of cheese and a pint of nutty, creamy brown ale. I would urge people to step outside their comfort zones when purchasing beer, push the boat out and attempt something new -after all, gerbils do the same thing over and over. Also don’t be afraid to try a change in temperature: too cold and the palate cannot sense flavour (why cold Corona works so well), just under room temperature is optimum and I pour scorn on the idea that British beer is served warm. That is plain stupid, warm beer is awful whatever it is. British cask beer served at cellar temperature of between 10⁰ and 13 is just the most gorgeous thing in the world next to Monica Belucci (and you can tell Elle I said so).


Thursday 14 March 2013

Reasons to be Cheerful Part One.

While there's a page devoted to categorising the things in the world I feel that someone should be jailed for, I think the general tone of this blog ought to be positive. I would like to think that there are more things in the world that I like than things that irk me. In the vein of Reasons to be Cheerful by the late Ian Dury, hereafter is a short list that shall no doubt be added to in the fullness of time:

Reasons to be Cheerful Part 1:
Elle MacPherson: speaking of fullness, she still captures the imagination whenever I am in vacant or in pensive mood. She was a fixture on my wall as a teenager and I ran my illegal gambling book out of an Elle MacPherson diary at school. Attila the Wife has very graciously allowed Elle as my free pass, now I just need to wait for the phone call.

Daphne: Not another supermodel, rather the small intensely aromatic flowers that sing out that spring is arriving. If I am to die, I hope this is the last thing that I ever smell, although a naked and fragrant Elle MacPherson would be a very close second.

Midsomer Murders: I once read that if Midsomer wasn't a fictional county it would have a murder rate three times higher than Greater London. Some of the murders are comic in their execution (forgive the pun), some of the characters eccentric to the point of lunacy but every single episode entertains and is good mental exercise. It is the televisual equivalent of the cryptic crossword and an hour and a half well spent.

Nicely polished shoes: I'm not generally known for being the tidiest man on the planet but I do get an inordinate amount of satisfaction from having at least one set of immaculately polished shoes. It's one of the few positive habits I came out of the Army with and I can spend hours applying polish, burning it on evenly over the leather and then polishing it off with a piece of wet cotton wool, it is quite cathartic. I had a look around me at the High Court the other day and you'd be surprised at the shoddy standards of the shoes of some professional people. Look at the shoes of some of the accused shuffling into the District Court and you can see why they're the accused.


Ian Dury and the Blockheads: Ian Dury had a face like a smacked arse. He was by many accounts a horrible person: vain, angry, selfish and self-obsessed. He wasn't even a cockney but he had a way with lyrics and led a band that created some of the most loved music of the 1970's and 80's. There's many a moment made better when Ian Dury and the Blockheads come on to the playlist, although I accidentally had Plaistow Patricia come out of the speakers at full noise at the opening of a quiz when the bar had a table of older customers and children present. Click on the link if you're not familiar with the song. It might be a good idea to turn up the volume as loud as you can as well. Let me know how you get on.

Introductory post

Ooh, a blank canvas. A tool for me to turn pirouettes, streak nudely, throw mud at and do what I like on. A blank canvas reeks of possibility and before I have even begun, Attila the wife has criticised the name of it. This is the woman who just blew her nose into a hanky, proudly showed me a green glowing globule of snot and then told me it is the same word in Danish. So the name stays thank you very much.

"Hmmm..." Jono dans la pensée
Taken at the Mussel Inn, Golden Bay. Go there, it's fab-ooo-lus
.

I suppose there had better be a reason for the creation of this blog and some sort of justification for sharing my thoughts with the rest of the world. I would like to imagine that I am too pretty not to appear on the internet and if someone is going to publish pictures of my boobs it ought to be me. Other flimsy rationales include that I just want to, I like writing and I have some pretty clear opinions on things that either amuse me, confound me or irritate me. I also want to share in the things that bring me joy: things like chutney, making sausages, making faces, the thought of the next pint. I'm a bit of a simpleton really. A chutney-loving, sausage and face making, pint dreaming simpleton. Conversely, I want to share in the things that move me to anger and there will be a photo-journal included of things that can get fucked. So as I sit developing what was a stark, bare white page, I invite you to read, enjoy and peruse my new blog. Grab a cup of tea, a cheering pint or ruminative whisky and share my developing dream. 


You may even get to see my boobs.