I don't think I knew what wind was until today. From the moment I woke up and peered out the filthy, rain-spattered window of my little cell, I knew it wouldn't be an optimal riding day. But the rain was only a secondary problem, or so I realized during the ride to the boat harbor, which was way too fast and way too easy --meaning that the wind was coming out of the south, the direction we'd be heading the rest of the day. The scenery between Wellington and Picton is said to be gorgeous. We didn't see any of it, though.
Fog and rain had swallowed up all the views, and it was way too cold to go out on deck. So we spent the three-hour voyage gabbing with an adventurous German cyclist called Stefan and an angelically beautiful young Dane called Finn. It was raining pretty hard when we disembarked in Picton, but we decided to do the butch thing and ride. It was tough going at first, up a big hill that led out of town, against the wind and under the rain. But after a while the rain subsided and the road led through a steep-sided canyon that cut off most of the wind.
When we arrived in the town of Blenheim --where we thought we'd spend the night---the sun was shining, tempting us to continue, wind or not. At tourist information, we booked bed-and-breakfast-and-dinner on a farm some forty kilometers further down the road. We figured we'd make it there in two hours, three hours tops, but it took closer to four. The wind had picked up considerably and was coming right at us. All our concentration was focused on simply keeping our bikes on the road, and proceeding towards our goal, one revolution of the pedals at a time. Pretty as the scenery was --especially through two rather high passes---the riding was hell.
The wind was so loud I literally couldn't hear myself think. Just as I was contemplating crawling into a ditch and quietly dying, a car pulled up to us and stopped. The pumpkin-shaped driver leapt out and asked if we were two tired Yanks. It was Pete, our host for the night, and he was offering us a ride the final couple of km back to his place. On the way, he pointed out NZ's only salt works and the site of the new port, which he saw as his winning lottery ticket. He told us that when the Wellington boat arrives literally at his front door, he'll have a housefull of guests every night.
In spite of his optimism, Fred and I noticed no work underway to make this new port a reality. Pete may very well have a long wait ahead of him. And in the meantime, he'll be working in the salt mine in order to make ends meet. Tomorrow is the first day in thirty-five years that he'll be working for someone else. Pete's house is pleasantly situated in a little glade at the base of some hills and was therefore protected from the screaming gale. He introduced us to his \"housekeeper\" Joy. \"I give her free room and board in exchange for housework,\"
he explained with some embarrassment, causing us to wonder if he wasn't telling the whole story. \"We're having seafood soup and steaks for tea,\" announced Pete. Did this mean we'd be having scones and crumpets for dinner? When I announced my intention to go out and have a look at his sheep (15/16 purebred Fresians, which he keeps for stud purposes), Pete made a rather off-color joke involving gumboots. And during the newscast we all watched together, chomping away at the delicious meal, our opinionated host maintained a running commentary. Overall, a hilarious evening. And one which came to an abrupt end.
Country people turn in early, it appears, which suits us fine in our wind-blown state.