Chapter Twenty Two

HOW did that pirate or interloper infiltrate our blog and write the clearly bogus, libellous, if not downright blasphemous last Chapter ? It must have been done by some ne'er-do-well computer hacker or whiz-kid with lots of time at his or her disposal, a little creativity and some daft or crazy ideas about what might have happened one day Down Under off the coast of NZ.

It certainly was not authorised by Trish and myself and, in our view, seriously infringed both the confidentiality and copyright attaching to our blog. If we ever establish the identity of the scallywag, legal proceedings will immediately follow and punitive damages will be sought. (You can never, ever, have enough money, can you ?). The scoundrel has been warned. No mercy will be shown!

We left you in Chapter Twenty with Trish and I escaping the long arm of the law. We had been admonished for driving too slowly on roads we had never travelled before. But when we explained we were both Munster-born, the investigating policeman quickly apologised for stopping us and said he had a new respect for our cautious driving. We think his re-think was partially based on Munster's near wipe-out of the All Blacks. Amazing how quickly possible arrest can turn to respect and freedom from prosecution, isn't it ? Thanks, to the lads in the red jerseys !

For the second time we ventured across Queen Charlotte Sound, the Cook Straits and into Wellington where we stayed in an adjoining town called Lower Hutt. Christmas shopping was undertaken that day and next evening we again called on Tom and Sarah O'Brien and family. Their son Owen had been hospitalised since our last visit with meningitis but was now on the mend though not yet back to work.

The day was December 19. It was somebody's 64th birthday and a cake and candles was purchased to celebrate the occasion in the O'Brien family home in Whitby outside Wellington. "Happy Birthday" was sung to the unfortunate birthday boy, and his wife exclaimed to anybody who would care to listen that she was now married to a 64-year-old man.

"I can't believe it," Trish exclaimed. "Me, a young one in her early fifties, married to an old geezer who is just short of picking up the State pension. I don't think I will ever recover from the shock ! It doesn't matter that he was an acceptable 63 yesterday, he is 64 today, for God's sake !"

She did, slightly, get over the shock. But it took until the onset of Christmas to lessen the impact of what had happened to her. She is, however, still not fully recovered from the experience !

That night family-tree nostalgia gripped Sarah. Trish said her mother, Kitty, had all the information, background, family antecedents and genealogy at her fingertips. There was nothing for it but to call Ireland and find the information she was seeking. No horrendous phone bills, even though the call lasted almost an hour. Trish had obtained a facility to ring a land line in Ireland for just two NZ dollars or around 82 cents in Euro money. Talk about a bargain call !

Time to say goodbye next morning but we indicated to Sarah and Tom this might not be our last visit to New Zealand. So, it was 'Au Revoir', rather than 'Goodbye'. We headed straight to the NZ Post Office and 'road taxed" Tom Birdsall's van for a further 5,000 kms. He had been kind enough to do the same for us when we set out on our round-NZ motoring holiday, nearly seven weeks previously.

The journey from Whitby outside Wellington to Sheila and Tom's home in Remuera near Auckland is approximately 620 kms and we made the journey non-stop, save for a meal break of 40 minutes, in 8 hours and 45 minutes on the road. That averaged out at 75 km per hour, going through towns and twisty roads in persistent rain and wind. But we were glad to be safely "back home" in Sheila and Tom's place.

Christmas in Kiwi-land is different from either Ireland or Britain. Weather is warm though not tropical, houses are decorated though not as lavishly as North or South of the Border, and there are not the same long pre-Christmas supermarket check-out queues as at home. It is altogether a more relaxed affair. Sheila and Tom retired to their island home for the Christmas. On the day, December 25, presents were stacked up under the Christmas tree and to the side of the lounge. Though away from Ireland now for almost six months, Santa had no bother in locating our whereabouts in Waiheke. He would put the Post Office to shame !

Early afternoon Sheila cooked brunch of scallops, honey-glazed ham, fresh cray fish and prawns in sauce, accompanied by specially baked wheaten bread (very special recipe) and ciabatta bread, all washed down with a wide selection of NZ's best white, red and sparkling wines. But first, every Christmas gift was individually opened by its recipient. Trish and I sipped Jameson as we joined in this pleasant Christmas morning fun. Bridie, Sheila's daughter, who had been up since 9 a.m. looking at the wrapped parcels and wondering what they might contain, was beside herself with anticipation. She could not wait to hand out the presents and open her own.

After brunch, we went for a walk to clear the "cobwebs". Bridie and Tom's daughter, Divinia who works in Melbourne but who had flown in for the Christmas, went for a swim on nearby Shelly Beach Strand. It was so warm that yours truly was able to fall asleep in the sunshine on a picnic bench. Then, back home to bed. But we were soon called by Sheila for Christmas dinner of stuffed turkey, boiled and roast potatoes, a selection of vegetables, gravy, all again washed down with the best wines NZ has to offer. We had our dinner outdoors on the decking under candle light. Crackers were pulled, pleasantries and joked exchanged, and we whimsically discussed Santa's progress on his journey round the rest of the world.

As you probably know, New Zealand is one of the first but not the first country Santa and his reindeers call to in their journey to children and adults round the universe. Other island nations in the Pacific, such as Tonga and Fiji, also lay claim to this distinction. Even the small sparsely populated archipelago of Kiribati by virtue of its re-aligning of the International Date Line now claims to be the first to usher in the new day since some it's islands lie to the east of the 180 degree longitudinal line !

On the other hand, among the last places in the world to be visited by Santa in his 24-hour journey are Honolulu in the Pacific, Pitcairn Island to which many of the mutineers on the 'Bounty' fled, French Polynesia including Tahiti, and Samoa. But by then his sleigh is not as heavy as it was when visiting the more affluent countries. Expectations of children and adults in these less well-off parts of the world is much less than that in developed nations and, therefore, the now nearly-exhausted reindeers have less to carry to fewer people.

If New Zealand is one of the first nations in the world to be visited by Santa, Western Europe including Ireland is somewhere in the middle being a a full 13 hours behind NZ, Tonga and Fiji. When it is midnight in Ireland on Christmas Eve, Santa has already visited over half the world. Incredible, but true. For Western Europe is a good half day behind Austral-Asia, time-wise, and so by the time he gets to Ireland he has already "done' the three nations mentioned, as well as Australia and the two most populous countries in the world, China and India. Almost unbelievable, isn't it ?

Next day after Christmas is St. Stephen's Day in Ireland but Boxing Day in Britain, NZ and much of the Commonwealth nations. Boxing Day apparently owes its origins to the practice in Britain in the Middle Ages of more affluent persons giving their staff of cooks, drivers, estate workers and servants presents of clothes, food and money to take with them to their families the day after Christmas, December 26; hence, the name, Boxing Day. It has nothing to do with the returning of unwanted gifts.

Even in Ireland, this practice of giving "Christmas Boxes" to refuse collectors, company employees, and others who may have done one a favour, still prevails. But December 26 is more appropriately known as St. Stephen's Day, after the first Christian martyr who was stoned to death for his preaching of Christianity.

The day after Christmas, Tom Birdsall launched his aluminium boat, complete with outboard engine attached, by way of a winch and pulley down the side of the cliff face to the foreshore. That evening he cast his fishing net overnight in nearby Putiki Bay. By next morning only two fish were caught, a flounder and a snapper; the fish were not biting. It was, after all, the Christmas Season. There was, already, plenty of food on most people's tables.

Next day Tom participated with others in his "Grand Marina Expedition', details of which were posted by another person in the previous chapter. It was now time for Trish and I to move on and both Sheila and Tom again graciously loaned us their Hiace and made their home in Auckland, now vacant, available to us. We grasped the opportunity with gratitude.

As we write, time is now drawing close for us to end our two month NZ holiday. It has been a particularly pleasant and warm experience. Trish is very contented here and says 'we must return'. I am inclined to agree.

Tomorrow morning, December 31, we fly out from Auckland to Sydney in Australia. We are all packed and ready to go.

But first, a more important matter. As you know, we expect to be grandparents within the next week or so.

When we have any news, you will be the first to know.

All the best, and a Happy, Healthy and Prosperous New Year to both our families and all our friends.

Thank you, Tom and Sheila, for making these last two months so enjoyable. Your hospitality knows no bounds.

Love you all.

Another Chapter, both on the blog and in our lives, will follow in less than two weeks.

Stay tuned.

Chapter Twenty One

OPERATION 3xXX

So secret, it cannot be given a proper code-name.

This strictly confidential contemporaneous account is for 'Your Eyes Only'.

Please do not discuss the contents of this memorandum with any person whomsoever.

Compiled by an anonymous source who was an accredited monitor and observer on the historic occasion.

THIS highly secretive and totally clandestine mission, Operation 3xXX, was carried out in New Zealand on December 28, as the last days of 2008 ebbed away. It was executed by three anonymous heroes who are a credit to their countries, highly meritorious members of their families, and worthy members of the human race. Their likes and their achievements are unlikely ever to be replicated.

For sheer bravado, all-round-devilment and unconfined audacity, these men have no peers. This remarkable trio of two New Zealanders and one Irishman are some of, if not the, most remarkable men the world has been privileged to count among its citizens. Their valour and fortitude against all odds makes these three unlikely heroes, worthy of entry to the pantheon of the Gods. Their maritime achievements are never likely to be matched, much less surpassed.

It all began when one of the New Zealanders who, for reasons of anonymity, must be called Tom Birdsall noticed one day that he was without a swimming platform in the creek near his home with which to entertain inhabitants of and guests in his holiday home in Waiheke Island off the coast of Auckland. Straight away, he resolved to rectify this serious omission. He summoned his thoughts - they had no option but to obey - and speedily launched a quick but effective plan at the end of which he mysteriously but legally became the owner of an un-wanted but highly valuable piece of floating wharfage.

Next, he subpoenaed his good friend and fellow Kiwi - let's give him the non-de-plume, Doug White - to join him in what was to follow. He had considerable sea-going experience and was to be the expedition's jovial skipper.

But in a land where quite a few birds never flew on two wings, it was decided to recruit a third person. After little searching, Able Seaman Tony Cadogan was inducted. Copious amounts of best NZ Chardonnay persuaded him into becoming a compliant conscript. His identity still remains a secret.

"Don't call him that," his wife, Patricia, said. "It'll go to his head. Soon, he'll be insisting you call him Very Able Seaman Cadogan".

The Third Man had little or no sea-going experience - apart from a couple of ferry-crossings to France every year, to buy wine and go on holidays.

Together, all three, Birdsall, White and Cadogan - who are still incognito - have now become known in the pages of New Zealand sea-faring history as ' Ready, Willing and Able' - their real titles or names, of course, remaining carefully concealed.

Having assembled his team of would-be crack maritime adventurers, Mr Birdsall made clear the purpose of the hazardous mission.

"Our task," he informed them, "is a precarious one, If any man wishes not to participate in this perilous engagement, let him opt out now and return to the bosom of his family. There is no shame in choosing family first".

No one flinched. They were not craven quitters. These men were the bravest, ready to serve humanity and their countries so that, in a manner of speaking, a structure could be put in place to benefit this and future generations. They were aware of the highly hazardous nature of their assignment, yet did not baulk or flunk the challenge.

"Our project is no under-cover one," Mr Birdsall continued, "we will surprise them with our audacity and do it in broad daylight. I have checked with the Kiwi Meteorological and Weather Service and they assure me there will be sufficient cloud-cover to prevent any satellite surveillance of our operations. This will stop any pictures of our assignment finding their way into the wrong hands or, worse, into the following morning's New Zealand Herald. We all know how bad that could look!"

"Our mission is a simple but complicated one," he added. "Present and future generations of revellers must be able to sunbath on and dive-off of this floating platform to their hearts' content. Our task is to tow it from the shores of Auckland Harbour out into the Bay and around the coast to a spot beside my holiday home. We owe this aquatic pontoon to this generation and, maybe, future generations of fun-lovers. It is our duty."

His remarks were met with loud applause. A chorus of approval, you might say.

Come the day and the team of heroes assembled near The Ferry Terminal Building in the midst of downtown Auckland. Skipper White arrived at the appointed hour in his 5.5 meter aluminium-hulled launch. For the technically-minded, it was powered by a 75 hp outboard motor. Messrs Birdsall and Cadogan clambered aboard, donned life jackets and the project was immediately underway.

Within seconds they had passed under the lee of the 89,000 ton luxury liner, Rhapsody of the Seas, its many elderly passengers not yet recovered from the previous night's exertions at the counters of the liner's eight luxury bars. They were, therefore, unable to bear witness to history being enacted under their noses on the port waters beneath them. On they went past the 29,000 ton merchant vessel, Cap Van Diemen, just about to leave port with a full complement of containers stacked high on its decks.

Quickly, the target piece of wharfage was recognised by Mr. Bridsall who clambered aboard and secured ropes from two of its cylindrical floating chambers to both sides of the stern of Mr. White's launch. With a gentle strain on the towing rope, the pontoon was slowly prised from its moorings and past the 'Van Diemen' whose crew were now also preparing their ship to leave port for the high seas.

The semi-mobile marina consisted of three steel air-tight tubes joined together by metal beams. A decking or platform was laid on this frame. In all, the platform measured approximately 15 feet by 25 feet.

The project, no, the expedition, was underway.

Initially, it had been estimated that the precarious and highly hazardous 14-mile or so mission might be completed in three hours or thereabouts. But it quickly became apparent this was an overly-optimistic timescale. For although our seafarers left at high tide and ought to have been helped by an extra knot or two as a result, a quick examination of the boat's speed over the sea bed showed progress was minimal, ranging from 1.7 to 2.7 knots an hour.

Several factors contributed. The need to preserve the integrity of the towing rope, the desire not to over-extend the capacity of the towing vessel's engine, and the slab-sided front nose of the wharf all slowed progress through the water, not withstanding the best navigational skills and seamanship of Messrs White and Birdsall. The Third Man did little, his job primarily being to observe and record history for posterity and the edification of future generations.

The wash from passing high-speed car and passenger ferries, waves from weekend family craft, and the need to stay out of marked navigational lanes also had to be seriously regarded. But soon a more serious problem presented. The towing vessel ran out of fuel and an emergency tank had to be resorted to. This caused a major re-think of plans; what to do, and what if the whole mission had to be tragically aborted or temporarily abandoned.

With no prospect of being re-fueled at sea, Messrs White and Birdsall, resolved to anchor the wharf to the sea bed, leaving Mr. Birdsall in sole charge of his floating island, whilst the towing vessel made a high-speed dash to the large marina in Half Moon Bay, further down the coast from Auckland. It's under-floor tanks filled with petrol, the pair returned in the towing launch to the previously abandoned Mr. Birdsall, the towing ropes were re-attached, and the slow, dangerous voyage re-commenced.

Because it had been anticipated the expedition would be completed within three to four hours, little thought was given to food and drink supplies -a critical mistake that could have cost the expedition its ultimate success. But just when all seemed lost, Mr Cadogan fished a full bag of liquorice allsorts from his mini-rucksack. Shortly afterwards, Mr White produced a box of chewing gum tablets from his jacket pockets. The day had been saved! Our heroes would survive. They would not succumb to starvation and history would not have to be written off.

On and on, they chugged. In sloppy waters now, their already-slow progress threatening to become static. But these were 'glass half-full men'. Not for them the prospect of defeat, perish the thought!

Then suddenly, near disaster almost struck. As towlines were being re-adjusted to the rear of the boat, the vessel lurched to one side, its starboard bow rose up, the port stern dipped to within inches of sea level. Mr Cadogan was shocked by how dangerous their position had become.

Skipper White realising that his vessel was within a second or two of turning over, pulled the accelerator handle back to 'Neutral', pressure on the stern eased, and his vessel resumed its normal upright position. Disaster had been adverted. It had been a near one. The prospect of their towing vessel filling up with sea water, or worse - capsizing - had been averted, thanks to the cool re-action by Captain White.

Hour after hour went by. With no liquid refreshment aboard, the team become resigned to their abstemious fate. Their tongues turned to the consistency of sand paper through lack of lubrication.

Just as they neared Kennedy Point, from where the mainland car ferry operates from Waiheke Island, a family friend of Mr Birdsall loomed alongside in his high-speed cruiser to escort the intrepid expeditioners in the final mile of their journey.

What with the current epidemic of piracy elsewhere in the world, the thought occurred that this might be a similar attempt off the Kiwi coast. But, no, it was Mr Birdsall's friend all right, and he had come not to pilfer our precious cargo but to throw a half-eaten packet of pretzels to our three heroes. Once again, fate or destiny had intervened to ensure the success of the expedition. Flagging energy levels were temporarily boosted though, of course, the men's undoubted machismo would not permit such an outward show of discomfort or hunger, now that they were almost in sight of their objective. They had reached Putiki Bay, safe from the vagaries of the high seas of Auckland Harbour with all its attendant risks and hazards.

All that was now required was that they ease into Okahuiti Creek, adjoining the side of Mr Birdsall's holiday home, and secure the pontoon to an underwater anchor. This was safely accomplished. It had taken NINE hours of dedication, bravery and determination, not to mention some little skill.

Pretty soon, a welcoming crowd of family, friends and children assembled on the foreshore to extend their congratulations and voice expressions of admiration. Beers and chicken-salad burgers were produced and consumed within a minute, or two, or three.

It was time to appraise the expedition and to evaluate its place in maritime history. All agreed this had been a mission accomplished in the face of real adversity. But, thankfully, casualties had been avoided. The expedition team quickly recovered from their hunger and thirsts. A potential diving and sunbathing platform had been safely delivered to its destination after a harrowing sea journey of epic proportions. All was well with life !

Quickly, our heroes were subsumed back into the real world, Mr. Birdsall into the warm embraces of his family in his Waiheke home, and Messrs White and Cadogan travelling to the mainland later that evening to be re-united with theirs.

The three men who successfully completed this expedition received no financial reward for their endeavours. Nor did they pursue any.

Neither did they seek fame or adulation.

It was only correct and just, therefore, that society quickly recognised their selfless dedication and altruistic motives in successfully accomplishing this arduous task of monumental proportions. An immediate ad hoc meeting of the NZ Committee for the Recognition of Offshore Heroism was convened. It decided to instantly award pre-posthumous demi-gold medals to Messrs White and Birdsall for their perseverance and fortitude in executing their mission.

In the case of Mr Cadogan, the Committee decided not to award any medal, simply offering a citation indicating his role was merely that of a spectator and chronicler, but acknowledging that he had completed the journey. In the words of one Committee member: "he only came along for the ride".

The names and deeds of Messrs White and Birdsall are now forever writ large in the Down Under Hall of Maritime Fame.

Post Script: You, reader, are enjoined not to discuss the details of this odyssey with any unauthorised personnel or reveal the identity of these anonymous, gallant adventurers.

Their names belong to history only !


ends......

Chapter 20

Listen, you are a spoiled lot ! No, there is no drama in this chapter. Nobody falls off a glacier, gets seriously ill, or has a dangerous mishap. Nothing sensational or dramatic happens; just plain ordinary everyday adventure.

Like the time we travelled to Queenstown to stay in the Top Ten Holiday Caravan Park on the shores of Lake Wakatipu in the south of the South Island and the country's longest lake at 84 kms long. In 1860, this town was the subject of a massive gold rush when thousands of desperate men and almost as many entertaining ladies converged here to make their fortunes in different ways. The local river, the Shotover River, has the distinction of being the second highest gold bearing river in history, second only to the Klondike River in Northwest Canada.

The Government purchased this wild frontier town and afterwards pronounced it 'fit for a Queen'. Hence, the name, Queenstown. Officially, the gold rush ended in the early 1900s but there is some basis for believing the pursuit of pleasure is as strong as ever here. Nestled on the edge of the lake shore the town is surrounded by mountains which dip their toes in the Lake. This town is the adventure capital of New Zealand. It attracts more than half a million visitors a year, for winter sports in June, July and August and at all other times, for thrill-seekers searching for unusual pulse-racing past times. We were among the latter.

But first a sour note. It was here our Hiace received its only rejection in nearly two months travelling around NZ. Not posh enough, we were told. 'You have no curtains on the back or side window,' the Top Ten Park receptionist observed. And it was true. Our Hiace contained an inflatable mattress in the rear and two huge beach towels draped over the side windows. 'People could walk past and see you and your husband asleep,' she remarked. The thought flashed through Patricia's mind: 'What kind of people do you admit to to your park that go around peering inside the window of vehicles to see their occupants asleep ?' But there was no point in arguing with her; she had her mind made up.

So off we went to another Top Ten Park, this time just outside Queenstown. Here, they did not seem to attract such curious window-peeping clientèle. We were safe. No one bothered us. We were normal. And they were.

Next day, suffering adventure-withdrawal symptoms, we decided to rectify this unacceptable state of affairs by going on a high-speed jet boat trip through the canyons of the Shotover River – whose gold-filled waters caused a mining stampede a century and a half ago. But first we had to register and legally exonerate the jet boat company from any disaster that might befall us such as drowning, accident or injury. Even after signing all one's rights away, the company – with good reason – urged pregnant women, people with back problems and other serious medical health conditions not to undertake this dangerous but pulsating high-speed river run.

Trish and I had specially travelled to Queenstown to participate in this world-famous adrenalin-rush adventure. No amount of warnings, we felt, would deter us from this heart-pumping experience which is unique to NZ. First we donned three-quarter length 'splash jackets' over which we fastened our life jackets. Then we boarded our jet boat which is specially-built to speed down shallow rivers at high speed and is capable of doing 360 degree-turns in narrow river gorges.

Our boat which cost around 350,000 Euros to build was powered by two Buick 3.8 litre V6 supercharged engines producing 520 horse power. It could travel at speeds up to 85 km an hour, or around 55 mph, in as little as 10 cms, or four inches, of water by drawing water into the boat's internal propellers and thrusting it out through rear nozzles at great force.

One is not tied in by way of safety belts in case of sinking or over-turning but passengers – there were 14 of us on board, plus the driver – are urged to hang on for dear life to heated grab rails in front of them. We had front seats next to the driver, and hang on we did during what was a pulsating 40-minute ride that had our heart racing, our hair and faces drenched, and our minds frazzled with exhilaration. The driving style of our skipper can only be described as suicidal, aiming at canyon walls and river obstructions, and turning away from danger at the last moment, avoiding what could and would have been a messy end. Described as the world's most exciting jet boat ride, our highly-skilled driver raced through the canyons, sometimes in only as little as ankle-deep water, and at others in deep fast flowing torrents that swept everything in their paths. In all, we did eight full 360-degree turns in an action-packed and breath-taking ride.

When it was over, we were left emotionally hung-out. 'You can go again if you wish, but next time insist on a more experienced driver,' our skipper joked.

“That was some mind-blowing fun. I'm glad I did it. It was SO exciting. I never thought I could get so much fun from high-speed river racing and water acrobatics,” Trish said afterwards. I think she was pleased we travelled to Queenstown to taste the excitement.

Next it was up the road to witness people pay NZ $165 or around 66 Euro for the 'pleasure ' of diving off the Kawarau Bridge over a fast-flowing river of the same name with only a rubber band attached to their ankles to save them from disaster. Bungy-jumping was first practiced in Vanuatu in the Pacific where people for centuries have being throwing themselves off specially-constructed wooden towers, their feet held only by vines to the top most platform rung. But the concept has been perfected by Kiwis and the idea exported around the world. It got the official seal of approval in 2004 when then Prime Minister Helen Clarke officially opened a multi-million NZ dollar centre at the Bridge.

Children under 15 years can jump off he Bridge for NZ$105 and over-60s can do it for free. But no amount of inducement would have tempted me onto the Bridge, not to mind jumping off it. The world's first bridge bungy jump took place here in 1988. We saw three jumps from the Bridge when we were there, one of them involving a young man and woman lashed together and jumping in tandem. Nearly all of those who volunteer are young people. My son, Conor, who is 30 now did it a decade ago and told us the buzz and excitement he experienced stayed with him for 24 hours.

On up country to the Alpine village of Hanmer Springs where Maori peoples have known for centuries the efficacy of these naturally-heated waters. Some of these therapeutic hot pools are sulphur pools where the odor emanating from them is more like that of smelling rotten eggs. But there are alternative sculptured rock pools and soaker pools where temperatures range from 33 to 42 degrees Centigrade and which attract huge numbers of visitors each year, even when snow is all around this winter sport holiday resort.

Two hours of this type of thermal pampering costs as little as five Euros per person. Herself and myself decided to 'take the plunge' and were not disappointed. It was delightful. We even had our picture taken in one of the pools by a professional photographer and a copy was sent to Trish's mother a day or two later. Talk about self-indulgence !!!!

Our sojourn in NZ is now drawing to a close. But not yet. We still have a further fortnight in this delightful country before leaving for Sydney on December 31, New Year's Eve, and my son Conor's birthday.

On the way back to Blenheim we were stopped by a police car. The lone policeman on board thought I was driving too slow at 60 kms per hour down a zig-zag mountain road. A speed of 100 kms per hour was permitted, he pointed out. After producing my Irish driver's licence and explaining the Toyota Hiace was not mine, but the usage of it was a gift from friends, he appeared satisfied and we had a general chat at the side of the road. It was the only time the law caught up with us in New Zealand !!!!!

Didn't we tell you at the start of this chapter that there were no nasty surprises in store ? Didn't disappoint, did we ?

More AFTER Christmas, OK ? .

Chapter 19

Where did we leave you ?

Oh, yes, coming through the beautiful inter-island sound from Wellington in the North Island to Picton on the South Island, dolphins dancing and splashing in the sea at either side of our ferry, and herself unselfconsciously admiring her newly-acquired but expensive circular piece of precious metal on her left hand ring finger. As treasurer for the purchase, do I need reminding of it ? No thanks. It sure burned a hole in my pocket and I am still suffering financial scorch marks ! But it must be said she thoroughly deserves it.

Off the ferry, we made our way to Blenheim, capital of Marlborough country where many of the best-known NZ wines are produced. More about that anon. But on the way back from the supermarket to the caravan park, we noticed an orange light aglow on the dashboard. Oh,oh, trouble ahead, we thought. A quick glance at the van's manual indicated low fluid in the cooling system.

That evening we topped it up with three litres. Of water, not wine. Next morning, checked again. Same problem. Engine had developed a stationary overnight thirst. Nothing for it but a visit to the local Toyota garage in Blenheim. A quick examination by the service manager, after which she referred us to a radiator specialist 100 metres down the road. What a stroke of luck ! The owner, Tony Flood, turned out to be a 4th generation Kiwi, whose great grandparents had come from Killarney, Co. Kerry to NZ.

Because there were two vehicles in the workshop ahead of us and parts were required for our Toyota, Tony generously offered us the overnight loan of his Toyota Hiace, and after transferring our mattress, sleeping bags, toothpaste and change of clothes etc, we headed back to our Top Ten Caravan Park to spend another night. Next day, after returning his van, getting our own back fully repaired, we headed off for Nelson, a small pleasant city on the North Island's north coast.

But all this took place before Trish and I went on a day-long trip to half a dozen wineries, as they are called, and a chocolate-making plant. Incidentally, going around this country we noticed roadside signs for 'cheeseries' and, wait for it, 'juiceries'.

One winery was called Hunters, founded by a NI man tragically killed in his late thirties, but whose wife now carries on a very successful business, winning a string of awards for her wines, many of them in Europe.

In Nelson, Trish went to the New Zealand Nature Company with which we have have had some dealings in the past, via the internet. There she got herself a new silk pajamas. This company is one of the cheapest in the world for silk products. After her purchase, she confessed to feeling like, 'the cat's pajamas' !

Next day it was on to Westport, a small seaside town on the west coast. There we met Ken, a retired Canadian stock broker and his research analyst wife, Sue. After what can only be described as an enlightening and fruitful discussion, they indicated that in their view our current world financial crisis was going to last until 2010 or 2011. 'Cash is going to be king for the coming three or four years,' he forecast. 'Don't buy anything until you first see a definite upswing in world markets and prices,' he advised. 'Even then, though you may miss the first two rungs of the ladder, you will catch the next five'. Words from the wise?

Another day's travelling further south to the village of Franz Josef, which gets its name from the famous glacier in the NZ Alps. The Catholic church in the town is known as : Our Lady of the Alps. En route, Trish and I had traditional Irish breakfast, except it was known and described locally as a 'Wild West (country) Big Breakfast'. We stopped near Donovan's Creek at Lake Mapourika where we admired the snow-covered high peaks of the NZ Alps. One of these Alps is named Mount Cook – the highest mountain in NZ. It stands at 3,754 metres or 12,349 feet. A few days previously the mountain unfortunately claimed the life of a 49 year old Japanese climber, the 69th victim to die on the mountain.

It is hard to believe but at this time we are approaching high summer here and the highest alpine peaks are still covered with the powdered white stuff. In Peru, Trish went almost as high as 14,000 feet without touching snow, though it must be said the Andes mountains are much nearer the Equator and, therefore, subject to higher day-time melt temperatures.

Incidentally, the highest mountain in NZ and the Straits off the North Island are named after Captain James Cooke who circumnavigated these two islands in 1769/70 but who was not, however, the first white man to discover NZ. That distinction belongs to Dutch seaman Abel Tasman, after whom the south eastern Australian island, Tasmania, is called, and after whom many landmarks and streets in NZ are named. He became the first white man to land in New Zealand in 1642 but these islands had already been colonized by Polynesians who arrived some time around 925 AD or earlier. These Polynesians are the forefathers and foremothers of today's Maoris.

Next day, we decided to participate in a professionally-organised trek up Franz Josef Glacier. It is a 12km long field of compacted ice descending from high in the Southern Alps to less than 300 metres above sea level. But first, we were kitted out by the organisers in climbing boots, crampons to attach to the boots and without which the climb would not have been possible, water-proof trousers and jackets, and we brought our own mini backpacks containing drinks, food and energy-giving chocolate.

This glacier itself was first discovered in 1865 by a German geologist and explorer called Julius von Haast and he named it Franz Josef Glacier after the Austrian Emperor of the same name because, he said, the long tongue of compacted snow which gouges its way between the mountains before dissolving from higher temperatures and sunlight at lower levels, reminded him of the Emperor's long flowing white beard. Today a whole industry is built up around this and the other Alpine natural phenomenon called Fox's Glacier.

You can catch a helicopter flight to take you up and into either of these glaciers and avoid all the hard work of climbing up. We chose the latter option, a professionally-organised trek with a young strong NZ climber as our guide. All treks are led by experienced guides who lead their teams up the glacier wall, hacking away with their pick axes to form steps in the ice, up which the rest of us climb in a single file behind him. In the difficult parts, we held on to ropes tied to shackles which, in turn, were attached to bolts screwed into the solid ice. When these bolts become lose, as they do with melting ice, they are screwed in deeper into the ice, particularly if the hole which previously held them becomes dangerous through lack of purchase. Or, they are simply screwed into a nearby fresh new hole in the ice. When properly attached to the glacier, our guide said, they are capable of lifting or holding a truck. A small truck, he explained.

Our group of thirteen inexperienced mountain or glacier climbers consisted of a delightful group of six young Spanish and Chilean women who chatted non-stop throughout our mini expedition. There was a young British couple, An Australian mother and daughter from Brisbane, a Kenyan man, and Trish and I. The predominant age group of those in ours and other groups who climbed the glacier that day was late 20s or early 30s. Older folk generally take the helicopter route. I was the only 60-plus person on the climb in the five or six groups who were on the glacier the same time as us, and Trish was by far the oldest woman, bar the Australian mother who seemed of similar vintage.

Before the climb up the crevice-indented wall of the glacier, we first of all had to hike through a pathway in thick bush, before emerging onto a huge river bed, fed by streams of water from the melting glacier and waterfalls from the adjoining mountains. To make progress along the stones, rocks, and other debris deposited over thousands of years by the melting glacier, we had to wade through several streams, our boots, socks and trouser ends becoming saturated in the process.

All went well in the climb up the wall of the glacier. We listened carefully to our team leader, Jonathon, and heeded his warnings and advice. I was directly behind our guide, followed by Trish and the Kenyan man who, she said, followed her too closely on the ice and appeared impatient with the slow pace of the climb. Incidentally, compacted snow when it forms into ice give off a blueish-coloured hue because of the way so-called 'white' daylight or sunlight is refracted through it.

On top of the glacier but on the lower reaches of it, we stopped to admire the view and had food and drink refreshments. Pictures were taken to capture the moment. Our bodies which were warm because of the 1,000 feet or so climb began to cool, the result of wind chill effect and the lower ambient temperature on top of the glacier. It was time to trek back down.

It may seem easier to ease your way back down a glacier or a mountain than up it, but the reverse is usually the case. On the way up, one dug one's crampons toe-first into the ice; on the way down, it was heel first. One also faces out rather than into the glacier. Now, the semi-vertical nature of the climb became more apparent. To anyone with a fear of heights it could become intimidating. Trish felt uncomfortable with the Kenyan man behind her. He kept 'rushing' to fill the space she had just vacated and, on a number of occasions, bumped into her and, occasionally, nudged her forward and down. But she kept her nerve. And her grip. And did not panic.

Now, we were near the end of the descent. An L-shaped flight of steps cut into the ice lay before us. Suddenly, a shreak of panic was heard. I briefly looked over my shoulder and saw what I thought was one of the Spanish-speaking women disappear down the side of the glacier. But, no; it was the Kenyan man who had been so impatient both on the climb and descent. Below us, we heard him moan in agony. The thought flashed through our minds – perhaps he would die from his injuries. Maybe these were his last gasps. A glance at where he lay, however, showed that he was moving. Slightly. At least he had not been killed outright.

In all, he had fallen about 25 to 30 feet or about 8 to 10 metres. Trish said the man brushed passed her on his way down. Luckily, he did not manage to grab her or her mountain jacket to try and stop the fall. The remaining dozen members of our team were in shock. On the instructions of our instructor and leader, we did not move, holding onto our guide ropes and making sure our crampons were firmly dug into the ice steps beneath our feet. A team at the bottom of the glacier preparing for their ascent heard the plaintiff cries of the falling man, looked up and saw the entire incident. They, too, were in shock.

Our team leader, after instructing us not to move, quickly sprung into action to help the stricken climber as did the leader of the team preparing to climb the glacier. Through hand-held radio apparatus, the base headquarters in the village of Franz Josef five kilometers away was informed of the accident and an emergency helicopter was immediately dispatched to the base of the glacier.

Fifteen to twenty minutes after his fall, the victim was on his way to hospital with suspected rib injuries. It could have been a lot worse. A tragedy had been avoided, though how was inexplicable. Trish who was the climber nearest man says she believes he left go of the safety rope as he rounded th L-shaped flight of steps, lost his footing and slid off the glacier, feet first. His fall was broken by a ledge of 'dirty' granite particle-filled ice at the bottom of the glacier wall. He was a lucky man to survive with only minor injuries.

It was a tired, elated, but subdued group of trekkers that made their way back to base headquarters in the village of Franz Josef that evening. They were exhausted from their glacier trip, happy with their achievement but stunned by what had occurred.

At the beginning of the week we had read the reports, seen the pictures and watched the television accounts of a great tragedy occur near the summit of Mount Cook. Now it was our turn to witness a near tragedy which had mysteriously but fortunately been averted.

We were content with our achievement in safely climbing and descending Franz Josef Glacier. But we were also made acutely aware how simply we and others can so easily be touched by misfortune or disaster. The line between life on the one hand and serious injury or death on the other is, indeed, a thin one.

Stay with us. There are more adventures to come.

Chapter Eighteen

WHERE do I begin ? With an apology, I hear you say, justifiably.

Let us, therefore, tender heartfelt regret for not keeping you informed with an up-to-date account of our travels and experiences since leaving South America. Our absence from the keyboard was and is regretted. No excuses. To all who have been avidly following our adventures, and who have now waited in vain for almost a month, we tender sincere apologies. It will not happen again. Promise.

Our journey from Santiago in Chile to Auckland, by far the biggest city in New Zealand -but not the capital - took twelve and a half hours, all of it in total darkness. It was a long time to be in a plane on a non-stop journey, but it is by no means the longest commercial non-stop flight in the world. It falls a long way short of some other long commercial flights in the world, some of which take 15, 16 or even 17 hours of non-stop flying to complete their journey. In 2004, a Singapore Airlines plane took 18 hours and 40 minutes to complete the 16,600 km (10, 314 mile) trip from Newwark in New Jersey, just outside New York, to Singapore in South-East Asia. But the fatigue element, plus the possibility of suffering Deep Vein Thrombosis, a life-threatening condition, make such long-haul flights unpopular and wearisome. They are not for the very young or old.

Some people, however, prefer to get from A to B in a non-stop fashion, irrespective of how long it takes, rather than be on a series of inter-connecting flights which could take 30 hours and more, span three continents, and leave one in a state of utter exhaustion, if not psychiatric meltdown, upon their completion. Such trips can lead to a complete collapse of our circadian rhythms - the body clocks which each of us has, and which tell us when to sleep, rest, eat or be active.

We took off from Santiago at 11 pm on Sunday, November 2 and because we 'lost' a day when we crossed the International Date Line which runs the middle of the Pacific, landed in NZ at 5 a.m. on Tuesday, November 4. Lady Bracknell would not have approved.

At the Airport to meet and greet us was generous Tom Birdsall, husband of Sheila McCabe who for those who do not know Sheila, is the niece of Olive Troughton. It was not easy for him since Tom had his left leg encased in a plaster cast after undergoing a recent operation to correct an old leg injury. Although he uses two crutches to aid his mobility, the fact that he drives an automatic Ford Falcon car means he is highly mobile on four wheels, the left leg not being required for declutching purposes. After introducing us to Rosie, their great big American Bull Dog and family pet, we headed to Sheila, Tom and Bridie's home. Bridie is the beautiful 13 year old daughter of Sheila, and the soul of sensitivity and good manners.

Their beautiful hillside home was to be our base for the next month. Our host family could not have been more generous to us. We were the recipients of the best of food and alcohol, invitations to their friends' homes for dinner and Tom provided us with the free use of the family's third car, a Toyota Hiace, for the duration of our stay.

Sheila is a Trustee of the Ronald McDonald House, a charity which provides accommodation for families of seriously ill children. This year Sheila organised a NZ$ 75 a head al fresco lunch to raise funds for this charity and previously made over NZ$ 9,000 for this worthy cause. This year she was hoping to come near double that figure. She kindly invited Trish to the "Ladies Who Lunch" function, as the occasion is known. NZ's top chef, Peter Thornley, cooked the lunch. All the food and drink was sponsored by various companies and friends. An open air auction was held in the beautiful gardens, an Irish band provided the music, the Ulster flag flew proudly in the breeze, and the sun shone warmly and brightly on the specially invited 70-plus guests. A small army of male helpers, husbands of some of the women, served the ladies while Bridie brought along some of her school friends who, in turn, became wine and champagne waitresses for the afternoon. It was a very relaxed, cheerful and exceptionally friendly occasion.

Trish, who was without a dress of any description following her four months in South America, went into the Newmarket area of Auckland to buy herself a gorgeous ensemble for the occasion. We also decided to put up two one-litre bottles of the best Irish whisky for auction - one Jameson from the South and the other, Bushmills from the North. They were the first item to be auctioned and, to our surprise, made NZ$ 207 for Sheila's charity.

But the real surprise came towards the end of the auction when a beautiful one-carat plus single stone diamond white gold ring came under the hammer. The central diamond was mounted on a four-claw setting, supported by two shoulders containing five smaller diamonds each. Total diamond size came to more than 1.2 carats. The whole thing looked stunning.

Two women bid for it. The auction began with an opening bid of NZ$ 1,000. Quickly, the bids went back and forth between the two women. There were gasps of excitement from those present. A number of the guests gathered close to one of the women to offer their support and encouragement. The second bidder discreetly sat in the background. Not easy to see. Eventually, the dazzling ring was knocked down to the first lady. A round of applause broke out. She was the subject of hugs, kisses and congratulations. Even her husband, who was one of the helpers on the day, was the subject of warm best wishes.

That husband is pleased to tell you that his wife, Patricia, was the 'First Woman' and won the diamond ring at the auction. She was then, and still is, thrilled to bits with the purchase. She says it will perfectly match her wedding ring back in Ireland. The husband is still receiving unsolicited tenderness and gratitude from his wife !!!! Some fellas have all the luck.

Sheila, too, achieved tremendous success with the news that her fund-raising on this occasion alone realised more than NZ$20,000. Well done, Sheila.

New Zealand, or as the Maoris called it, Land of the Long White Cloud, is a beautiful clean country. It's population is 4.25 million compared with 4.4 million in the Republic of Ireland. But the land mass is twice as large and the climate in Summer (right now) is warmer than in Ireland. Trish says: much warmer.

New Zealanders are affectionately known as Kiwis. The word Kiwi is derived from the name of a small bird which is native to New Zealand and is now an endangered species, although protective measures have been put in place. A picture of this flightless bird, some of you will recall, featured on the lid of a steel polish box which contained, of course, Kiwi shoe polish. The bird itself is about the size of a chicken. But the word also gives its name to the hairy-skinned green fruit with which you all will be familiar.

One day when driving on the North Island we came to a little village outside the town of Russell. To our surprise, a huge roadside sign read: "Cead Mile Failte''. The same words were contained in the villages's coat of arms. Many cities have streets called after Dublin and in Wanganui, there is even a Dublin Street Bridge. There is a town called Shannon north of Wanganui.

We, of course, watched, the rugby matches between Ireland and Munster with the All Blacks in Sheila and Tom's house on the slopes of Mount Hobson. Ireland disappointed but Munster did not. We were both proud to have Munster blood running in our veins. As you all know, Munster came within three minutes and, if memory does not deceive me, two points of winning that game.

For most of the month of November we travelled around the North Island, including a visit to Waiheke Island, off the coast of Auckland where Sheila and Tom have a cliff-side holiday home. With the loan of Tom's van, and the purchase of an inflatable double mattress, and our sleeping bags from the mountains in South America, we travelled around most of the top half of the country. Eventualy, it was time to head down south and after staying a night each with two couples, friends of Sheila and Tom's, it was time to visit Trish's cousin, Sarah (Sadie) her husband Tom O'Brien and their children, Jodie and Eoin.

We easily found their home on the shores of Brown Bay, about 24 kms (16 miles) outside down-town Wellington, and sat down to a beautifully prepared barbecue and copious quantities of refreshment. It was a Friday evening, the end of the week, and all was well with the world. Trish was delighted to be re-united with her cousin. It had been over thirty years since they last met. But you would never have guessed it from the warmth of the greeting and the conversations that followed. It was as if they were only resuming a conversation they had to cut short yesterday. Tom and Tony, both Munster men, got on like old friends.

After three beautiful days with the O'Briens, it was time to be on our way. The South Island beckoned. It involved booking ourselves and the van on the four hour ferry from Wellington on the North Island to Picton on the South Island.

What a beautiful journey, as our ship wound its way through the calm sea waters and picturesque coastline to our destination, Trish all the time showing me her ring !

More to follow........................SOON

Chapter Sixteen

DAY three arrived very cold and crisp. Today was our short day so we did not get up till 7am, and after breakfast, we set off on the trail at 8am. Todays trek, although at 10 kms is shorter than yesterday´s 16 kms, is just as chanllenging as yesterday´s, involving, as it does, the descent of what seemed like thousands of steps. We treked till 3pm and arrived at Winay Huayna our campsite for the night at just 2680 meters or 8,792 ft above sea level. A far cry from 4,200 m or 13,779 feet above sea we reached at the top of Dead Woman´s Pass yesterday. It makes me feel good that I can climb to nearly 14,000 feet without oxygen, thanks to the prudent acclimatisation we took for several weeks before attempting the famous Machu Picchu trek.

When we arrived at the campsite my toes were sore and as soon as lunch was over I sat in my tent with a basin of water which I put my feet into for about 20 mins. We were free to rest till 5 pm. Some of the others went to sleep but I just ¨chilled out¨ in a basin of water.


At 5 pm we were escorted by our guide to an Inca site about a 7 minutes walk from our campsite. It was the largest we had seen on the trail and was described by our guide as a mini Machu Picchu. Laid out in similar fashion to the real Machu Picchu, it was a beautiful place and well worth the visit even though at the time I found it difficult to move myself once I had settled into my tent for a rest earlier that afternoon.


At our campsite, we could avail of the luxury of a hot shower, at a cost of 5 soles, (about 1.25 euro). Some people did. Each person was allowed a max of 10 mins to get undressed, washed and dried. Only 2 showers were available, one for men and the other for the women. When I looked at the queue, I thought better of it because there were 20 women waiting and with each one allowed 10 minutes I would be waiting for over 3 hours for a shower. It would also be dark and cold by then. Rain was threatening to come and the rumbling of thunder could be clearly heard in the distance. I preferred to stick my feet in the basin of water instead and ´baby-wiped´ the rest of my body.


Each evening at dinner we were given details of the next days events. This evening we were informed that we were to be at the Sun Gate to see the sun rise the following morning. We would be woken at 3.45am and would be leaving our campsite at 4.30am. The sun would rise at the Sun Gate at 6.30am. With this in mind we all headed off to bed at 9.30 pm


During the night the threatened rain came and with it the promised thunder and lightening. Its ferocity kept most of us awake for the rest of the night. It did not bother me, I was very snug in my sleeping bag and the sound of the rain on the tent was lovely. I felt secure inside the canvas. By the time our porters woke up our team with a basin of hot water to wash with and our hot cup of tea, I was already half packed up and almost ready for breakfast. I was excited as well as emotional. This was a very important day for me. I could not but help think of Tony whose dream this had been but who was missing the thrill of what I was about to experience and witness.

The Gods, it seemed, were crying in their heaven.It was a wet, wet morning and like the others I was compelled to dress in my rain gear. Like the porters, guide and others on my trek, I also used my head lamp, worn on the head like a miner´s lamp, to light up the way ahead.


No one was really in form for a big breakfast, but I guess the chef knew this, for he had baked us a cake. This was a special cake, made with all of us in mind. One of the girls did not eat sugar, so when the cake was baked, a section of it was made without icing. In my case, a section was inscribed....if that´s the word....with a shamrock. It was nice for someone to think I was special and to go to this much trouble for me and at a height of a mile and a half into the sky!


We set off on our last day on this difficult adventure at 4.30am in the rain and the dark. Our fourth day´s hiking would take us down 1,100 feet and across the a distance of 5 kms over uneven and difficult pathway. We set off at a very fast pace - our objective to reach the Inka Sun Gate before the Sun arose. It would be such a pity to get to the sun Gate late and miss the early rays of the sun illuminate our pre-Columban lost city in the Andes.


My muscles ached, my toes were sore, my shoes and trouser ends were filthy and all my joints groaned. But I persisted and with a mixture of determination and an unwillingness to seccumb to whatever nature might throw at me, I went on with some pride and a little enthusism, happy that I was achieving this important target in my life. I was achieving a dream, one that had been Tony´s to begin with, but which turned out to be mine to complete.


But these Inkas were shrewd people. They did not make penetration of their mountain top fortress easy. Incidentally, it was so remote and inaccessible that the Spanish although they conquered the rest of Peru never discovered this citadel in the sky. It was only discovered by an American academic in the 1920s with the help of a local farmer who lived in the valley thousands of feet below . It was as if nature had covered this place with trees and shrubs. It had lain undiscovered for almost 500 years. And I was now about to trod on this sacred and hallowed ground.

But not before one last shock was in store. For just after a bend in the mountain path, my mouth almost dropped when I saw what was in front of me! STEPS ! An almost 100% vertical wall of steps. Upwards. About 50 - 60 steps. One false move, one missed step, one miscalculation and I would truly be resting in pain, but more likely resting in peace! I tried not think of the consequences.

So, "right," I thought ! The only way for me to conquer this final challenge is on "all fours," undignifed though it might look. I didn´t care who was watching, or how I might look. I took a deep breath; did not look up or down, but just went for it. I dared not look around or stop for fear of falling. I simply kept going.

Exhausted, I scrambled over the top, glad not to be last in our group to overcome this final obstacle. I was surprised and delighted when other people in other groups who had reached the top applauded me on my arrival there. Everyone, it seemed, encouraged everyone else. We in turn encouraged and applauded the other treckers coming after us and overcoming this final gravity-defying challenge.

It was now 6 am and our target was to reach the Sun Gate in thirty minutes time before sun-up. By now the rain had ceased. But................... to my disapointment and dismay, I did not see the sun at all. Yes, the sun had risen that morning as normal and we did arrive on time to see it ......... but the mountains were covered with cloud and mist. It was worse than a dark, grey, winter´s afternoon. Some people cried with disappointment. Others barely held back the tears. Our hard and fast final trek through the mountains that moring seemed to have been in vain. But not totally.

On we pushed, this time to reach Machu Picchu proper. I knew or guessed Tony would be waiting here for me with his porter/guide. He had never been far from my mind and I was now going to meet up with him again, or so I had hoped, because I had no idea whether he had made if off the mountain and if so, what condition he was in.

If things had gone well for him, I knew he would be coming by bus to Machu Picchu. A fleet of Mercedes buses bring tourists from the town of Aguas Calientes (´Warm Waters´in Spanish) and he would be waiting for me when I reached my final destination. And this is precisely what happened.

It was Amanda, one of my group, who spotted Tony´s porter first. Tony was nowhere to be seen. I wondered what was wrong. I went down to where Javier and the porter were standing and asked what was wrong. There is nothing wrong, he the told me.......just that Tony is outside the gate. and cannot get in because I have his ticket and is waiting for it ! We all went out and met Tony and everyone in the group gave Tony a warm welcome back as if he had never been away these past two and a half days. But I gave him the warmest welcome of all. Together, we officially all entered Macchu Pichu as a group the way we had started off.

Tony writes: I was glad to be re-united with Trish and the rest of the group, but came so close to not making it. AS you know, I decided to turn back after two hours on the second day of the trek. My reasons for doing so have already been given by Trish; my concern about delaying and hindering other members of my group by virtue of my slow pace, and therefore placing their safety in jeopardy, and secondly, I reckoned it was beter to be a live grandfather to Rachael and Gareth´s pending child than to be a dead or otherwise hero on the mountain. It was not without some discussion with myself that I reached this decision, but in the end it was clear cut - there was no decent option open to me but to turn back.

That, however, was only the start of more trouble. The journey back would mean re-tracing that morning´s two-hour two kms journey and then re-retracing the 14 kms covered on Day-1, a total distance of around 16 kms. A porter, Ramon, was secunded to travel with me for I did not remember my way in these mountains and his duty was to make sure I got down safely, as least as far as Kilometer 82, our starting point.

But through a mix-up or over-sight, the journey had to be undertaken without food and with only three small bottles of liquid between us. Both Ramon and I had been walking since 5.3o am that morning. We stopped for five or ten minute rests when I required a ´breather´ but resumed for fear that the day might not be long enough for us to reach the safety of our starting point. Eventually, around 2 p.m. I told Ramon I was exhausted and doubted if I could complete the journey.

He asked me to rest and continued along the trail, until he found a farm-house, where he hired a horse to take me and my backpack the rest of the journey. The horse had a saddle but no bridle. I was simply expected to hold on to his mane for security. The old lady who had brought us the horse volunteed to walk in front with a rope tied around the horse´s head. But it was useless. Never having ridden a horse before and fearful of the fall to the ground, never mind the sheer drop-offs at the side of the trail pathway, I panicked and had to dismount almost immediately.

But the horse had now been hired. It could not be un-hired. So I decided that the backpacks Ramon and I were carrying should instead by carried by the horse while we walked in front at our own pace. The toothless old lady who owned the horse walked patiently behind. On and on we trudged, up mountain, down trail, until at last we reached a drinks station, where I purchased soft drinks for Ramon, the woman and myself.

At we neared Kilometer 82, we realised the porter and myself would never make our destination to Aguas Caliintes. So we dispensed with the horse´s services. The old lady quickly mounted the horse, put a rug on the saddle, and turned off for the fastness of her mountain home.

As we waited in the cold at Kilometer 82 Ramon and I were asked by an American to share a cost of a collectivo into Olantaytambo, which we gladly agreed to do. For despite the heat of the day, and our exhaustion, we could barely tolerate the icy cold winds which were now whipping up. The sun had gone down and there was snow on the mountains above. Nothing for it but to pay the 50 Peruvian soles demanded by the mini-bus owner for the exclusive use by us of his vehicle.

Within two kilometers, however, a row broke out. The driver, who was now greedy for more money than the 50 soles we had agreed to pay him, wanted to pick up other passengers to augment this amount. But the American was having none of it. We had a deal, he reminded the driver. Problem was one of the passengers was the driver´s cousin. At first he said he would not pay to take a lift in his cousin´s collectivo, then he agreed to pay twelve and a half soles - his share of the cost- but then changed his mind again and said he would pay nothing. I thought all hell would break out.

Eventtually, the driver agreed to abide by the term of the original deal but it meant having to pass and ignore all his ussual customers on the road. They were not pleased. Greed, however, is not without some moral lessons. I hope he learned it.

That evening Ramon and myself helped outselves to two big meals and some beer in a restaurant in the town of Olantaytambo. A tremendous sence of relief overwhelmed me. I was exhausted but had survived. I was happy to have got down off the mountains, safely. It might not have happened.

Unpacking my rucksack that night, I was astonished to discover it contained chocolate bars, sweets and other energy-giving substances which my porter and I could have done with on the mountain that day, and which Trish had packed for my survival. But I was so distressed with my physical and emotional condition on turning back that I had forgotten their existence. I knocked on Ramon´s door, told him of my stupidity and forgetfulness and shared my ´bounty´with him. He smiled quietly, but I know he was pleased. As if to say:"things happen."

Two days later, I was re-united with Trish on Machu Picchu. We chatted and talked as we made our way round the Inca ruins. My admiration for her was immence. She had achieved what she thought for her was unachievable. We joked that she would have some story to tell our grandchild/grandchildren. And she did it at 53 years ! I nearly fell in love with the woman all over again. She had shown tremendous guts, courage, determination and will-power. Not that I doubted that she had these qualities. But she had been tested and not found wanting in these attributes.

I was proud of her and I hoped her family would be too. She had undertaken and succeded in completing an overwhelmingly difficult challenge, on her own, and one which has defeated much stronger and younger people than her. My admiration for her has grown and grown. She is some woman. And I am glad and very happy to be married to her. I am a lucky man !

After Machu Picchu we relaxed in Cusco. Trish had her hair and nails done in a local hairdresser and we both had a massage. We got back to Lima, met our friends Maria Elena and Gonzalo, said ´Hola ¨to their son, Ivan. But but we were sad to leave two days later for the journey down Peru on what was to be the end of a dramatic finale in this historic country.

Our experiences had changed us. Of that, there was no doubt. I had a new respect for Trish and was in awe of her accomplishments and achievements. She had shown a side to her character that others are seldom called upon to reveal.

And she had not been found wanting.

But another country was calling us south, and time could not be delayed.

Chapter Seventeen

HEADING south and out of Peru our first stop was the city of Ica, a seven-hour bus journey which took us through the city of Pisco, badly damaged in the August, 2007 earthquake in which more than 500 people died and 100,000 were left homeless. More than a year after the disaster, evidence of the quake is still visable in Pisco with piles of rubble on sites where buildings once stood. One of the local Catholic churches in Ica is cl0sed, never again to house worshipers, with its belfry exhibiting fatal life-threatening cracks.

At the bus station in Ica to meet and give us a warm hug was Ronnie Salazar, Gonzala´s brother and after seeing us safely into a local hotel, we all adjourned for a meal and a few beers. Next day Ronnie, a former sports coach, brought us to a local lagoon, artificially built into the surrounding desert landscape and around which tourists and locals are taken, for a price, in monster dune buggies powered by 8-litre engines and capable of carrying 15 or more people. Although all the passengers are strapped in and fixed steel tube-piping is wrapped around the exterior of these vehicles, accidents still happen though most people survive the experience without a scratch. We decided to pass up on the experience.

Next it was on to Araquipa, the city built of white-stone volcanic material . Our travels now took us through mile after mile of dry coastal desert in which nothing grew, except in well watered valleys with snow from the surrounding mountains. Outside the green and lush valleys where every inch of soil is cultivated, little grows. Even cactus has to be artificially cultivated and watered if it is to survive in such a hostile landscape. The desert landscape continues into Chile where is known as the Atacama Desert, the second driest in the world after the McMurdo dry valleys in Antartica. In Chile, this desert is almost 600 miles long.


Trish and I now joined three young American women who were planning to cross over into Chile. Together, all five of us hired this man driving an old American Ford Mercury six-seater limousine to carry us from Tacna in southern Peru to Arica in northern Chile and to help negotiate all the exit and entry paperwork requirements at both Border posts. We (Trish and I) paid 40 per cent of the cost (40 Peruvian soles or less than 10 Euros) for the 60 km drive during which he drove at what seemed like speeds of up to 80 mph which for such an old vehicle seemed like its limit. We were now in our sixth South American country and our last before flying out to New Zeland at the start of November.

Next day, we went sunbathing on the beach in Arica and discussed what we might be doing in a year´s time. Our chat was a long one - there were so many possibilities ! Next we travelled on to a city with a great name.....Antofagasta. And all the time the weather is wonderful, dry, bright and not a hint of rain on this northern coast of Chile which is fringed by the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Andes to the east. The real purpose of tis trip down the north coast of Chile was to get to the capital, Santiago, from where we planned to fly to Auckland.

But first, I had to visit the coastal city of Valparaiso to follow a dream which has possessed my spirit and imagination for almost half a century. A poem by Padraig de Brun included the lines:


"A ship arrived from Valparaiso,


"Dropped its anchor in the bay........",


and a young teenage boy in Colaiste Criost Ri college in Cork became forever hooked on the romance and the far-away possibilities this name conjured up in his fantasies and imagination.

The poem itself was forgotten as was its author, but the mystery of this far-away place about which little was known in those pre-Internet and television days remained, to be explored in the mind in due course through the world of books, little imagining that one day I would walk its city streets and breath in the history of this historic port. The poem which died a death in my boyish mind now assumed a signifiance it did not have half a century earlier. Such is the power of words. One word. Valparaiso.

This cental Chilean city played an important role in the second half of the 19th century when it became the stop-over and provisioning port for ships travelling between the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans through the Straits of Magellan. But the opening of the Panama Canal in 1914 soon changed this and dealt a near fatal blow to this thriving trade. Now, however, the city has been rescued from obscurity by being dessignated a World Heritage site in 2003. It is also the home of the Chilean Parliament which was moved there in the late 1980s during the final years of the Pinochet military dictatorship, the blood-staind walls of the original parliament building in Santiago being too much of a powerful reminder and symbol of the temporary death of democracy in this country.

Trish and I went to the National Parliament building in Valparaiso and were given a conducted tour of the building by its Public Relations Manager. A massive mural in the lobby contained the words of Irishman Bernardo O´Higgins, a hero in Chilean history, and the primary author of that country´s independnce from Spain in 1817. He was, incidentally, the son of a Sligoman, Ambrosio O´Higggins who enrolled in the Spanish Army, and who had an affair with but never married a Chilean beauty.

The previous day, a Sunday, we visited a street antiques and second-hand fair which is held on one side of the Plaza O´Higgins in the city. In reality, it is like a flea market. Only one item excited me. Carelessly thrown up on a piece of furniture was an old British children´s story book. I looked at the title. "Gollywogg and the Auto Go Kart." Immediately, I realised its significance. "Golly" was now a word that was political taboo in Britain, and "Wogg" was a description that could lead one into the criminal courts.

But the book itself was what attracted our attention. It was a first edition, dated 1901 and inside the cover was a dedication to a little girl dated January, 1902. The book was 106 years old and for sale for 12,000 Chilean pesoes or about 14 Euros, just over Ten Pounds Sterling ! Trish immedately fell in love with the book and checked to see all its pages were still there. They were. All sixty six of them. A Finnish young lady who was attending the stall on behalf of its Chilean owners clearly had no knowledge of its significance and its collectability-value in Britain. She neither knew the author or the place "Gollywogg" once had in the British psyche.

But to be certain, we had to check things properly. So straight into an Internet cafe across the road from the market. And there it was, a similar copy of the book that was available to us for over Ten British Pounds was for sale on the Internet at Two Hundred and Seventy Five British Pounds, not including post and packaging ! We couldn´t believe our eyes.

Back across the road, this time up to the stall-holder. She could not sell it for less than 10,000 Chilean pesoes, she told me. I told her she had a deal. And immediately Trish and I became the new owners of a highly collectable and valuable British children´s storybook in, above all places, Valparaiso in Chile. We went to sleep that night overjoyed with a sense of discovery that had turned tourists into street-side discoverers !

Next day, we went by metro train to a sister city called Vina del Mar and after lunch lay on the beach. The following day we visited a National Park up in the foothills of the Andes. Wouldn´t you think we had done enough mountain and hill climbing by now ?

But our time in South America was coming to an end. Another country and another Continent were calling.

We were due to meet our South African friends and travel with them on one of the longest air journeys in the world. It is 13 hours non-stop in the air from Santiago to Auckland, all of it over the Pacific Ocean ! Even now, before take-off, we are already looking forward to getting our feet on the ground, and being with good friends there.

We can´t wait!