After three days in Wellington, it was time to make my way back up the North Island on the Kiwi bus to Auckland.

On the return journey we stopped in Taupo for the second time; a dead stop on the way down, the only excitement this time was the fact that our hostel had a very nice shower and we resigned ourselves to watching ‘Tipping Point’ and ‘The Chase’ in the hostel TV room, heading off to bed fairly early on the grounds that the less time we spent awake, the less time we would be aware we were in miserable Taupo.

We raced on the coach the next morning, keen to get back on the road to Auckland, which for all of us, would be our final stop. Our driver made a detour via thermal mud pools and a wildlife park to look at some kiwis, while our lunch stop for the day was in Matamata, close to Hobbiton, where I once again showed patriotic pride by getting heat rash through my jeans after sitting in the winter sun for twenty minutes. After a a long drive mainly spent berating our driver’s terrible playlist of smooth jazz, the odd Disney song and obscure 90s pop, we finally arrived in Auckland.

I checked into the dingy hotel that would be my home for the next few days and for the first time on this trip, felt really homesick, pining for my friends and family now I had slowed down and had time to stop and reflect. The next day I was forced to change rooms as a large party had booked mine out, and I quickly found a new friend in my new room mate Kevin*, from Germany, perhaps as we were forced to interact being the only occupants of an eight bed dorm. Our relationship blossomed after he leant down from his bunk to ask if I had seen the notorious ‘Angry Scottish Mum’ video and in the kitchen, after watching me mutilate the vegetables I was trying to cut with the blunt hostel knives, he intervened to show me how to chop them with German efficiency.

He was an interesting companion, to say the least, reprimanding me for my love of ‘unhealthy’ frozen cokes, blasting his metal music and ever complimentary with greetings such as ‘WHY DO YOU LOOK SO PREGNANT? AH YOU’RE JUST FAT/IT’S YOUR BAG UNDER YOUR COAT!!’ and ‘MOVE YOUR FAT LEG’ but we managed to coexist quite nicely, teaming up to cook in the evenings and heading out on various joint food foraging missions.

Conversations ranged from me repaying his insults or explaining why his perfectly innocent dream of owning a white van and selling ice cream might not be such a great idea, to the dangers of the corporate rat-race and of course we could always fall back on the sensible option of mimicking each other’s voices and screeching our catchphrases of ‘CHEERZ BRAH’, ‘HALORRR’, ‘FARKK ORFFF’ ‘DESGUSTANG’ and ‘SEE YOUU LATORRR ALIGATORRRR’ from one bunk to another.

Our time as the sole occupants of room 409 was somewhat tainted, however, after Kevin spilled some garlic paste he was taking to the kitchen on the carpet. This would have been fine had I not opened a window that we later found wouldn’t close, in an attempt to purge the room of the smell. Having sought the help of hostel staff, they compensated for the arctic winds coming through the open window by giving us a musty heater that quickly infused our clothes with the garlicky odour we had been so keen to avoid and we were left to go around town smelling like two vampire fearing maniacs/ the bloody French for the rest of the week.

While on the road, I had heard very few good recommendations about Auckland from other travellers, which following Garlic-gate I was beginning to understand; perhaps what I found most strange about this place was the fact that it seemed to lack the individual character or charm possessed by other major cities in New Zealand, with few places to eat or drink compared to Wellington or Queenstown. It was also quite tricky to find things to do, with main attractions being the Maritime Museum, which sounded like it had a minimum entry age of 85 and walking up Mount Eden- definitely not an option having just recovered from my clubfoot.

Perhaps the most entertaining activities were the ones not found in Lonely Planet- such as drinking tea with Dorothy and Rhianna, getting under the feet of the uptight and impatient suits based in the high rise buildings opposite the backpackers and convincing two very strange boys (who randomly approached Dorothy, Rhianna, Clara and myself in Starbucks and asked us if we did drugs) that we were hardcore Calpol addicts.

Having initially thought they were joking, it became clear that we had found ourselves two common-spotted lunatics, who refused to leave and failed to twig that we claiming to be trying to get ourselves clean from a strawberry flavoured cough medicine designed for children. After inflicting their presence on us for over 45 minutes, we finally escaped, sending them in the direction of a pharmacy to get their fix and I like to think they spent the evening injecting fruity cough syrup into their eyeballs trying find out if our claim that the banana flavour made you see dinosaurs really was true.

The next evening, having recovered from the previous day’s drug farce with a relaxing day spent sketching at the the city gallery, I ended up exploring the waterfront. It was one of the more picturesque parts of Auckland, particularly when lit up at night and I was assisted by a local, who was good company until he tried to convince me that the rest of the English-speaking world is incorrect and that the correct term for open toed footwear with straps is in fact the Kiwi term ‘jandals**’ and not the universally recognised word ‘sandals’, even going on to declare that such footwear was also acceptable for winter. This was a claim slightly undermined by the freezing winter winds and drizzle buffeting us at the time.

Resisting the urge to throw him in the murky waters of the harbour (Jesus most definitely did not wear jandals) on reflection I was actually quite grateful to have someone point me in the right direction (I failed to find my way out of the Irish bar while sober) and I’m sure he’s enjoying life wandering round on mildewed feet from wearing his SANDALS in winter, in blissful ignorance of correct spelling.

After five nights, the blessed day finally arrived when I was to leave our garlicky room for Thames, in order to rejoin Annette, Alice and Andrew, my relatives who had hosted me at the start. That morning, to mark the end of our career as a double act, Kevin and I decided to embark on a trip up the Auckland Sky Tower, taking advantage of a rare moment of sunshine in a place that rivalled the UK for wet weather. Like the Eureka Tower in Melbourne, this also had excellent, almost dizzying views, but this time they also came with an awkward photographer who I’m pretty sure mistook us for a couple, insisting on taking a picture of us, and the thrill of being in a tall building in an area where earthquakes are not uncommon.

We had timed our trip perfectly, with the brief break in the gloomy weather allowing us to see for the first time the vastness of what I had assumed was quite a compact city and I was surprised to find that everywhere we looked, the land was covered in the sprawling mass of Auckland and a few surrounding areas- such as Coromandel, home to Mindy and her trains.

After around half an hour of gazing out at the city from the various levels, and a visit to the boutiquey cafe at the top for ice cream and hot chocolate- we made our descent back into the busy streets ready for a trip to our favourite haunt of New World Metro***and I drew the conclusion that like my sister’s face, Auckland is best viewed from a great distance or in the dark****.

At around 5pm, I said goodbye to Kevin and lugged my heavy suitcase to the top of the hill ready to catch my InterCity bus to Thames, battling the crowds of snooty executives, tourists and people stopping short to look at their phones. Once on the bus, it took around two hours to get there and it was dark when I finally disembarked and strode purposefully towards the ‘Ute’ that I had been told would be Alice waiting for me. I went round the back, only to see that the occupants were in fact a family eating fish and chips who now thought they were being carjacked and I quickly trundled on to wait for Alice, who luckily arrived a few minutes later, with Andrew and Benson, my favourite furry Kiwi, who jumped out and skittered along the tarmac to greet me.

It was a lovely welcome and as we drove back to the house to find Annette and my elusive cousin Matt waiting for us, I really felt as if I was coming home. It was blissful to have my own room again*****particularly one free of garlic and as we settled down after dinner (a delicious home-cooked curry) to watch Shortland Street with Benson curled up on my lap, I couldn’t have felt more at peace.

After five weeks of constantly moving around and living in large dorms, it was great to be able to relax and recharge- with Alice and I spending quality time together binge watching ‘Game of Thrones’ and ‘Say Yes To The Dress’, wondering why they always managed to pick the most hideous option while eating Shapes and Sour Squirms- the ability to snack being a luxury after budget backpacker shopping.

The next day, Annette took me on a road trip to nearby Waihi and Paeroa, home of my favourite soft drink L&P and a model bottle too large for even Ben to chop. It was lovely to catch up and it felt as if barely any time had passed since I had been away; it was so strange to think that we had only properly met a month ago.

She and Alice treated me to more Kiwi favourites, such as custard squares, Afghan biscuits and documentaries about Gloriavale- a bizarre religious settlement in the South Island similar to the Amish. I also had the typically kiwi experience of attending a local club rugby game and a family road trip to Annette and Andrew’s beach house across the peninsula, complete with the dogs, where we walked along the beach on what felt like a warm spring day, despite it being winter in New Zealand.

Having got on so well, it was hard knowing that I would soon be flying out of the country bound for America and the thought of leaving my lovely family behind weighed heavily on me for the next few days. By the end of my six weeks I had been totally won over by New Zealand’s mystical landscape, large portions of chips and of course it’s most important resident, Benson. I have been surprised how much I have come to love this land of many extremes, having initially thought it was a slightly dead tropical version of Wales, and while it may not have Fiji’s endlessly friendly population (the Kiwi sense of humour being described by one Kiwi Experience passenger as ‘a neanderthal form of sarcasm’) it has a rugged unspoilt beauty and totally unique charisma (and tiny silky black and white dogs).

Stay tuned to find out what happened when I left Thames and made the leap to LA!

---

* his name is not Kevin

** I will only accept a ‘j’ if it is used with Spanish pronunciation- I think Handals could catch on

*** not a pub or a club but a supermarket

**** tis in jest Sir Hiss, miss you lots xoxxx

*****nothing personal Kevin