After a week in Queenstown it was quite a shock to check in at the next stop of Lake Tekapo.

Despite also being a picturesque lakeside town, Tekapo could not have been more different to the constant clamour of Queenstown, with an apparent population of ten people and the concept of a ‘pub’ not seeming to have reached this part of New Zealand. Accepting that we must be entering the Middle Ages, we checked into our rooms; it was strange and a little melancholy with the majority of Brad’s crew still in Queenstown, however I couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that we wouldn’t be treated to another round of ‘Knock and Run’ from the boys, who would have been horrified by the lack of bars/pubs/clubs/taverns/pool tables.

That evening, keen to get back on our gap yah high horses and resume our quest for the meaning of life, Charlotte, Sarah and I decided to pay a visit to Tekapo’s liveliest haunt and premier attraction- the Church of the Good Shepherd, in the hope of atoning for our five day bender in Queenstown. While this may seem an odd evening activity for an atheist such as myself, I was keen to go and sing and to reconnect with routines and rituals familiar from school days spent singing in the chapel choir- alternatively the stargazing tour was $99 and I wasn’t going to turn down free wine.

The church was an amazing space right next to the lake, with the large back window providing gorgeous views of the sun setting on the water. The congregation was small but welcoming, comprised of both locals and tourists and the singing interesting due to the alternative choice of hymns, pitchy leadership from the vicar and lack of accompaniment*. Nevertheless, it proved more restorative than previous nights of screeching S Club 7 in a bar.

During his address, the vicar decided to examine questions about the future of the human race raised by Yuval Noah Harari in his popular book ‘Sapiens’, taking particular issue with the author’s belief that God has no place in the next chapter of human development. While his arguments seemed somewhat tenuous to my sceptical ears, they nonetheless proved food for thought and Sarah, Charlotte and I agreed, as we made our way back over the bridge to our accommodation after the service, that it felt good to ponder questions slightly more highbrow than our usual dilemmas of ‘Where should we go for dinner: Mcdonald’s or Domino’s?’, ‘Will I get food poisoning if I reheat this rice?’ or ‘Which of the boys do you think will be the first to get arrested for indecent exposure?’

The next day I decided to follow up this virtuous Christian deed with a rare spurt of much needed exercise- joining May and Gemma for a cycle around the lake. What I fundamentally seemed to have forgotten however, was how to ride a bike, a beneficial skill that might have saved me from careering down the hill towards a passing bus with all the grace of a giraffe on a unicycle- luckily I just about managed to brake in time, my church trip obviously paid off. After a brisk cycle round the town I seemed to have regained enough stability to be road-worthy and we set off on a ride, stopping for a snack break and to take some pictures before racing back to beat the setting sun and the frostbite that would inevitably claim our fingers.

We were rejoined the day after by Tammy, Beth and Becki and together we made our way to Christchurch for one night, where we checked into the YMCA, which easily scooped the ‘Nicest Hostel’ award with the absence of creaky bunk beds and some fancy bathrooms. However, this was marred by the revelation that my left ankle was bruised and swollen- I’m still unsure how or why- excluding me from our planned evening activity of Zumba. After a fun day at a Christchurch pharmacy where a flustered doctor named Brent** awkwardly handled my foot and sent me away with a sexy tube sock and an icepack, Becki, Tammy, Beth, May, Gemma and I came together for a Last Supper at a busy food court, as like all good girl bands- we inevitably had to split and go solo, with a lot of the girls going to Asia the next day***.

On our return journey to the YMCA, May, as my carer for the evening, kindly pushed me and my inflamed ankle in a Countdown trolley- all shits and giggles until I nearly rolled into the path of a bus for the second time in two days (sorry Mother) and having thought we had dodged a trip to A&E we were greeted on our return to the hostel by a very aggressive man who had other ideas.

We came upon him threatening to punch one of the boys from our bus who had been sat innocently watching TV- his violent and erratic behaviour suggestive of addiction; thankfully through careful management of the situation said boy managed to deescalate the standoff allowing us to escape to our rooms. As I lay in bed gazing at my elevated ankle that was rapidly starting resemble the Elephant Man, and wondering if a trip to the bathroom was worth getting punched by the man who was still at large in the corridors, I began to think that the Village People had severely missold this accommodation and maybe it wasn’t quite so fun to stay at the YMCA****

Given the last night’s excitement I was relieved to be whisked away to Kaikoura the next morning, promising to catch up with the girls back in the UK, once they have returned from wearing hemp shirts, watching ladyboy shows and washing elephants.

Kaikoura had been on my radar ever since I had started planning this trip, on account of its abundant marine life and the sea safaris that depart from the harbour. Those of you fortunate enough to have known me from the age of seven to around ten I’m sure will remember that I was obsessed with all things flippered, replacing social skills with dolphin noises and peppering conversations with whale facts regardless of it being relevant or interesting to my victim- while I accept that this behaviour probably made my parents question putting me into special education, I still think we should all be intrigued by the fact that Beluga whales are nicknamed the ‘canaries of the sea’…

‘But Lucie, this is so different to your present effortlessly cool self’ Well dear readers, I know that this is a question that is definitely not playing on your mind but I must confess that behind this carefully constructed facade a socially inept dolphin fanatic still whistles***** and having done some research I was absolutely buzzing at the thought of hopping on a boat to spot some of the whales known to frequent the coast of Kaikoura.

Our driver arranged us a trip as soon as we arrived, dropping us off near the tour centre. As we boarded our boat and set off I realised I had severely underestimated how choppy or crowded the vessel would be, made even more pleasant by chundering children on the deck, however I persevered and after 45 minutes of trying to quell my queasy stomach and frantically searching for whales, I was rewarded with a sighting of a Sperm Whale’s gargantuan tail as it began to dive.

Not content with merely sitting on top of the water, I booked a trip to get in and swim with wild dolphins the next day. Unfortunately after turning up and spending the day scanning the sea for dolphins we were unable to find any- probably because these guys, who are renowned for scattering the dolphins and pushing them further afield, showed up…

Despite the lack of dolphins it was amazing to see a family of orca in the wild (the boat crew nearly had to crack out the defibrillator I was so excited) and they even gave me a bargain rate to come back the next day and try again. Being the fanatic that I was and by now well acquainted with the crew, I decided to take them up on this offer, dropping another classic dad joke that they should ‘add me to their rota hyuck hyuck’. My dogged determination and apparent zest for boating paid off on this extra trip, my third day out on the water, as the group was much smaller and we quickly sighted a large pod of dolphins, quickly sliding into the water to bother them.

It was initially quite scary as the dusky dolphins were surprisingly big, suddenly appearing from the murky ocean below us. In order to attract their attention we were encouraged to make noises or sing through our snorkels- the most successful Dolphin Whisperer among our ranks being an Estonian man repeating ‘Here kitty kitty’, which through a plastic tube sounded more like ‘Hnoo Pitty Pitty’- his approach bizarre, but evidently paying off, as he was consistently surrounded by them.

After over an hour in the water with the dolphins, I hopped back on the boat, the cold winter sea finally getting the better of me – more importantly I elected to make a speedy exit before I could swim after them in the hope they might raise me as one of their own. It was an incredible experience and a true trip highlight, made even better by the discovery that we had been at

the centre of a pod of 600 animals. What I particularly appreciated, was the fact that the trips are carefully managed in a way to ensure maximum sustainability and minimum interference for the dolphins so if they approached you, it was due to their own curiosity and not due to edible incentives or training. This made the trip far more rewarding, in my humble opinion, than latching onto the fin of some poor captive dolphin in Florida and forcing them to tow you around a pool that thousands of kids have peed in.

After several days of maritime madness, Wellington, my next stop had a hard act to follow, but it exceeded my expectations and over my three days there I leapt into the thriving arts scene- a side of life that had proved surprisingly elusive in other major Kiwi cities. I quickly scampered off to my regular haunts of museums, such as Te Papa to see its lauded Gallipoli exhibition (definitely worth a visit) and the city gallery, spending my evenings at the theatre.

The first play I saw was titled ‘Waiora (The Homeland)’ a piece that explored the past, present and by consequence, raised questions about the future of Maori culture here in New Zealand. Performed by a fantastic cast fresh out of, or still in education, it proved that young companies are not to be underestimated and can often pack more of a punch than some of their more experienced counterparts.

It was very powerful and a lot of the themes of the play tied in with the concerns of the artists whose work I had admired during the day, be it the Pacific Sisters celebrating their often overlooked heritage and commanding the recognition it deserves with their elaborate garments displayed at Te Papa or the ‘This Is New Zealand’ exhibition at the City Gallery, which discussed what it meant to call yourself Kiwi. It was clear that many artists wanted to discuss ideas of identity and their place within society and I found it fascinating to see how New Zealand’s past still has a huge impact on its society today.

For the next evening’s entertainment, I opted for another theatre trip- this time to see ‘Welcome to the Murder House’, a cheerful and brand new musical about the man who campaigned for the electric chair to replace hanging in American Prisons- think Hamilton with lots of black comedy and nods to vaudeville theatre. It was very clever as the premise was that the prison inmates were playing the characters, using makeshift character costumes on top of prison uniforms to portray a multitude of parts, lending them the farcical air of Peter Quince’s motley players in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.

It was really nice to have some cultural enrichment but sad to think that my Kiwi capers were coming to a close, stay tuned to find out what happened in my last few weeks before I move on the the USA!

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*I’m sure Chappy C members reading this will enjoy the thought of one of their most notoriously questionable sight readers trying to keep everyone in tune and make Rakkers proud.

** His name was not Brent

***Becki will immanently be releasing a lovely collection of Peter Andre and Destiny’s Child covers- keep your eyes peeled for her album in a Tesco’s CD section near you!!!

****thankfully this was a dance I could still do despite having one fully functioning foot

*****Gentlemen, sadly my last thoughts before I go to sleep are not whether to text you back but how majestic it would be to see an Irrawaddy River dolphin in the wild. The truth hurts sometimes I know.