My long journey to Ryan Adams

It may not be a journey to a specific, physical location, yet this is probably one of the most hard-fought and significant, let alone longest, journeys I have endured.

For those of you unsure of who Mr Ryan Adams is, let me shine some light on the subject. He is an American singer, not to be confused with BRYAN Adams. Many years ago Ryan was the singer in the alt-country band Whiskeytown before making music on his own, and then more recently with his own band. I first came across him in 2001 when I heard the song 'New York, New York'. This led me to discover the album 'Gold' which was my soundtrack to walking to college. I still 'shuffle through the city...' when walking a certain route, even now.

Once I find music I like, I tend to dive into it head first, so I checked out his previous music. On listening to Ryan's 'Heartbreaker' album I knew I was in trouble. I had my new favourite music. Man, that album was, and still is, so good. It is achingly beautiful where he pours his heart and soul into harmonica-driven laments, as well as breathily growling through Southern Americana guitar rhythms. It is also the home to one of my most favourite songs ever; 'Oh my sweet Carolina'. On some days it's top, but picking one song is like picking a favourite child. Sophie's choice really. But this song is consistently up there. If you haven't heard this album it go now. Go find it. If you know me, I'll lend you my copy. You can read the rest of this later.

So, to cut a long story short, my love affair with Ryan Adams' music has grown from there. It's soundtracked my life thanks to his prolific output. But live music is where the magic happens. I adore going to watch live music. There's something about the atmosphere, the cramped space and the electricity in the air. So clearly I needed to hear Ryan's voice ringing out clear and gouging a Southern drawl through my musical heart.

It was 2004 and I had convinced my friend Vicky to come see his show with me. A point to remember is that none of my friends who usually share my musical tastes have the love for this music as I do. I sold it to her that we could have a few days exploring Birmingham as well as going to the show. I will never forget getting to the venue after a long journey, (this was before the explosion of social media to keep us up to date) only to be told the show, and indeed the whole tour, had been cancelled. Ryan had fallen off stage and broken his wrist. I felt so deflated; it was as though the plug had been pulled on my party. Never has Birmingham offered less to a visitor.

But life goes on, and a few years later I bought my second ticket to a Ryan Adams show. Alas, once again it was not to be. The show was cancelled again, this time due to ill health. At least I didn't have to travel to Birmingham to be let down, but the heavy disappointment laid in the pit of my stomach all the same.

Then, earlier this summer I heard about Ryan Adams' forthcoming album and a few accompanying live shows. Demand for tickets was high and I failed in finding one. It was starting to look as though I wasn't meant to be part of the live experience. I bought the new album and consoled myself listening to that. It seems unfair to call it a consolation because it's one of the best albums I've heard in a while. Gloriously dark, rock riffs; you know a song is great if you end up singing along to the guitar parts. It walks a fascinating line between light and dark; from heart-rending laments to an urgent cry building to a crescendo that gets the heart racing. Go get that album now. It's ok. I'll wait again.

Then I remembered a Twitter App called Twickets that allows fans to buy and sell tickets on Twitter at face value. I camped out on Twitter, waiting for that magic offer. Eventually I saw it. Someone offering a ticket for the Shepherd's Bush show. As none of my friends are that interested in him, despite my best efforts, I thought I'd go it alone. I messaged them and waited with baited breath. The ticket was mine if I wanted it. If I wanted it! Hoping that the person was real and the ticket wasn't fake, I planned my journey to London.

The day of the show I woke up early, before my alarm and in the dark just like it was Christmas. Throughout the day at work, I was struggling to hold my excitement down. It's no exaggeration to say I felt sick with nervous anticipation at several points. Eventually I got on the road up to London. My car had a few issues on the way, helped in no part by the horrendous traffic of the capital. There were times I thought I wouldn't make it. But I did. Once arrived I met my ticket sellers. My eternal thanks to Ben and Nick. Mostly for being real and not being scam artists. Ticket in hand, I headed to the venue.

This was the first show that I'd been to completely on my own. But I didn't care. Without sounding too much like a stoner, it was all about the music, man. My heart was racing so hard whilst I was waiting that I thought I might've passed out. The support acts came and went and then it was nearly time. But then worry set in. I was stood in the heaving crowd (never have I been in a crowd with so much palpable anticipation) and the time he was due on stage came and went. I started to think I had cursed him by my mere presence. But all worries faded when he led the band onto stage and launched into the new single.

Man alive what a show. The songs were every bit as beautiful as on the records. The rockier songs pulsed through me and on the quieter, heartbreaking songs, the crowd hung on his every note. I've never been to a show where a messy-haired man with a guitar can hold the whole room in such awe. For me, a person who loves to singalong, it felt sacrilegious to bellow over his measured, impassioned words.

It was definitely worth the extra long journey to be stood in front of that stage. Thirteen years isn't that long a wait is it?

The only trouble is now I think I've spoilt myself. This Friday felt like a complete anticlimax. Once you've watched Ryan Adams perform on a Friday night, nothing else matches it. Maybe every Friday should be Ryan Adams performs night. Maybe in a perfect world.

Follow the brown sign

You know the ones. The signposts found by the wayside of roads up and down Great Britain. The beautifully enticing, dingy looking signs making you aware of a jewel in the British tourist board that is lying to be discovered, somewhere in the vicinity. Sometimes they're more than adequately clear in signalling 'Dunluce Castle', and then leading you to exactly that castle. And you know what you're looking for in terms of a castle. However some of these signs are a little more cryptic and generally less helpful.

To give you some scene setting, I visited the magnificent Northern Ireland. I had eight days to explore as much as I could. My travelling companions on this leg of the journey were Vicky, a very dear friend of mine, and her almost-four-month old son, and my Godson, William. Vicky and I have had previous experience 'exploring' together; not so much exotic, more rural areas. Deepest, darkest Wiltshire where we were unable to find a 100 foot white horse and blindly drove across a live firing range looking for a mythical village.

William was the uninitiated. If he realised what he was letting himself in for, he may have opted to stay at home.

On a rainy August morning, we headed out on the open road. Our route was to take us up through the Sperrins, a mountain range in the West of the country. To give a little more background, Vicky had only moved to Northern Ireland less than a year before, and for most of her residence she had been incapacitated by pregnancy and the subsequent infant child. Fair enough I suppose. And so sightseeing had not been top of the priority list. Once I had arrived to visit, maps and leaflets in hand, the tourist in her began to stir.

Negotiating the winding, country roads, we didn't particularly know where we were headed. But that's the nature of the adventures we were used to embarking on. We would drive until we found an interesting sign to guide us. This is where the brown signs are so valuable. This is where the magic happens.

I must add another character to the tale at this point. Vicky's husband, George, had also been dragged along for the ride. But I feel this is where we lost him. He didn't seem to share our enthusiasm for entrusting our route to waiting for a brown sign to appear. I hasten to add that George is a born and bred Northern Irish gent, yet when we asked him for worthwhile tourist trails, he had few gems to offer. With no greater alternatives, he dutifully fell into line to join us to put our fate into the hands of those wonderful brown signs.

Our track record on home turf had been quite positive. We had found many interesting ruins, castles and tea rooms. But now we were in strange, foreign lands.

As we drove the 'scenic mountain route', (labelled by the very same breed of signage) we passed our first board that directed us to an undiscovered treasure. I would recount the wording on the sign now, but I can't remember it at all. To be fair, two seconds after passing the sign I couldn't remember what it said. At a push I could say there were possibly three words, with a few 'c's and 'r's in there. It was just a bit too Irish for my English brain to comprehend.

Despite not knowing exactly what we were headed towards, Vicky was insistent. We found a turning point and set off in the direction pointed to by the sign. Passing another brown sign, we were heartened to be informed that this treasure was only a mere three miles away. Admittedly, I still couldn't understand the sign, and to be honest I'm sure they changed some of the letters around from the previous sign.

We drove on. And on. Pretty soon I was getting the feeling that our trusted brown signs were leading us a merry dance. We had definitely driven for more than three miles, but we hadn't found our destination. Not that we knew what we were looking for. None of us had been able to read the sign.

In time honoured British tradition we carried on. No, we certainly weren't lost. In fact we passed a stunningly beautiful lake that we weren't expecting and then continued on to a nature / craft centre that offered us weary travellers a hot drink and some sweet treats.

It was in this coffee shop oasis in the middle of the mountains that we discovered the truth about our magical signpost. Apparently the sign we were following was for an ancient Celtic burial site. And yes, we were on the right trail. But alas, the farmer who owned the land had got increasingly exasperated by tourists stopping by (clearly this is high excitement in these parts) that he removed the final brown sign to direct travellers to the exact site!

Gah! It seems some people don't have the same respect for those hallowed, brown signs as we have. Never fear. You can never stop the signage. We will continue to follow the brown signs. You never know where they might lead.

What's the difference between a Bakewell tart and a Bakewell pudding?

No, it's not the start of a hilarious food themed joke. It's a pertinent question I was faced with on my arrival in the picture-perfect town of Bakewell in Derbyshire.

I had travelled north to spend the weekend at Y Not festival with my musical counterpart, Jen. As a way to ease us back to 'real' life on the Monday morning, we decided to take a detour en route home. A visit to the Peak District wouldn't be complete without stopping by Bakewell for a sweet treat. As you may realise, I find it nigh on impossible to pass up the promise of a product from a bakery. Factor in the local connection and the significance of a Bakewell from Bakewell, and my mission was clear.

We had driven through the extraordinarily green, rolling countryside crisscrossed with endless lines of grey stone walls that made me think I was in a painting of the countryside from the 1950s. Or that cartoon story of the sheepdog from 'Twinkle' magazine (if anyone can remember the name of that I would be very grateful as trying to recall it is driving me mad. And Google is not yet equipped for such vague descriptions). The scenery here is so quintessentially English countryside that it reminds you how stunningly beautiful our country is.

A fortuitous sat-nav detour took us through Chatsworth Estate. From afar we took in the grand sight of a very stately house set amongst some of the greenest hills in the land. My excitement was greater to see a herd of deer going about their business in a small valley, shaded by a few trees not far from the road. There had to have been at least twenty of them. A truly stately sight.

So, to the issue at hand. As we walked the streets of Bakewell, we surveyed the various bakeries offering a tantalising spread of goodies. We headed into one inviting establishment and stocked up. I opted for a Bakewell tart and a Bakewell pudding just to be on the safe side. We found a nice spot by the river to sit on the wall, sample our sweets and watch the world go by. Every other person who walked by seemed to be accompanied by a dog. All shapes and all sizes of dogs were lead by, trying to sniff out the crumbs dropped from our bakery paper bags. Good luck to them finding dropped crumbs from me. That pastry of my mini-tart was the crumbliest, butteriest that I've ever tasted. So clearly, every morsel went into my mouth. Good job Bakewell.

There was a street market in action on a cobbled area by the river. As we walked towards it, a tiny, elderly lady stopped us. She warned us to hold onto our bags carefully as we passed through the market. I thanked her for her forewarning but felt I had not much cause for concern. All that was left in my little strappy bag from the long weekend at a festival was a handful of Dolly Mixtures, hand sanitizer and a bunch of folded up loo roll 'in case of emergency'. I'm not entirely sure what sells well in the Derbyshire criminal underworld, but I was pretty sure my bag offered slim pickings.

In answer to my original question I invite you to skip forward with me a few days. The large Bakewell pudding I secured from a bakery in the famous town came home with me. This dessert of eggs, sugar and jam laid atop the case of flaky pastry served as afters for a family meal that week. Without the sponge of the tart, the pudding is most definitely a pudding, rather than the afternoon tea treat of the Bakewell tart. And boy is that pudding sweet. I like sweet, but even for me, it was verging on diabetes-inducing.

So apologies to the town of Bakewell, but I think I'll pledge my allegiance to the Bakewell tart, which apparently, the town of the same name has nothing to do with. Maybe they like things sweeter in the Peak District. But at least I know now. I know my limits. I'll stick with a cherry Bakewell. Good job Mr Kipling.

The continuing journey...

As you may have realised, either by my previous blog entry or by running into me in the local supermarket, I am no longer on the extended journey that I set out on last year. My adventure that took over my life for several months was, hands down, the best experience of my life. The cliches are all true. Travel does broaden the mind. It makes you more independent. It gives you the opportunities to speak to people you would never ordinarily meet. And clearly, by its very nature, it takes you places you've never been. These new places range from being wonderfully mundane to enticingly interesting. And then you stumble across the odd place that is so achingly beautiful that you cannot quite believe how not everyone is able to see it.

I'm happy to report that along my journey there was no epiphany moment. I did not 'find' myself. I have not returned as some new age hippy exalting the virtues of communing with nature. What I did find along my way was a clearer belief that the journey trumps the destination every time. 'Lost' should never be a dirty word. You find more captivating conversations and more unexpected stops along the way when you're not entirely sure of where you're headed. I have always felt reaching your final destination of a journey anti-climatic. When I think back to childhood holidays, (sorry Mum and Dad) some of the best times were watching the rolling countryside and odd villages pass outside the window as we headed West. Then the random stops at a newly discovered town market or a spontaneous detour based on an intriguing road sign. That is why we should travel. The exploration of the unknown. The joy of discovery. The tiny genesis of nerves in your stomach when you head off the beaten track.

And that is why I shall endeavour to travel. It's all about the journey.

Circumstances as they are, I cannot take up the path I had planned to continue in the far off places of this world. But not to worry. Life is what it is and as I have already said, sometimes the journey we take isn't the path we intended, but that doesn't make it any less interesting.

So I intend to travel as far as I can, and pass through as many new places as possible. I have always maintained that there is beauty and intrigue wherever you go; you just have to look close enough. So there is a whole world out there to explore. Why not start somewhere closer to home? And my travels so far have taught me that you can meet a whole range of people, no matter where you are in the world. I spent a wonderful Christmas with a group of people in Central America, three of whom lived less than five miles from me. So who knows who I'll end up meeting halfway up a mountain and listening to their tales next.

The journey is never finished.

This Isham gnome is not hanging up her travelling boots yet...

One day like this...

So, one day to spend in New Zealand?

I should have added that I was in Auckland and had to be at the airport at about 10pm that evening. So any far-flung adventures weren't particularly feasible. And considering my pessimism and current run of bad events, I didn't want to end up stuck somewhere that I couldn't easily get to the airport from.

After some leaflet reading I deferred to my tried and tested mantra: Life is better by the sea. Fortunately Auckland being a coastal city, I didn't have far to go to the sea. I strolled down to the ferry port and caught the next sailing to Waiheke Island.

About 11 miles out to sea from Auckland, Waiheke Island is a beautifully undulating island that has caught the eye of many holidaying visitors and natives alike. Even the voyage across the Hauraki Gulf to reach the island was a treat in itself. Mother Nature bestowed the gift of sunshine upon me for my final day in New Zealand. The sea sparkled in the sunshine. The frothy foam that churned up as we coursed across the Gulf shone like discovered gems ploughed from those azure waters.

On arrival, I watched the throngs of holidaying groups meander off in their general directions. I had no exact plans. I had a backpack with supplies on my back, a map I'd picked up at the ferry port in my hand and my walking boots on my feet. Watching the crowds, I headed off in the less-trodden direction. Turning left, I followed a narrow cliff edge path through some increasingly dense, dry grass around the headland point.

The views were incredible. And I had them all to myself. I passed one man keeping his dog happy by throwing things into the sea for him to chase, and that was all the human life I saw for a few hours.

Those next few hours passed swiftly as I followed the path that hugged the contours of the coast. Up and down hills. Through thick grass. Across uneven rocky patches. Dipping under overhanging rogue branches. All the while with one eye on the achingly serene seascape accompanying me on my tramp.

'Tramping' is what they call hiking or rambling in New Zealand. Although it normally refers to a long distance hike, usually longer than a day, I'm going to count this as my tramping experience, seeing as I was short on time. In this case I like to think it was quality over quantity. 

My time walking in such surroundings and stopping (probably every minute or so such was the picture-perfect beauty of it) to simply admire nature at its finest helped me a lot. I had time to think, and conversely, to try to clear my mind of thinking. As I reached the brow of a hill or rounded another corner I kept thinking my eyes couldn't possibly take any more beauty. But every time I was hit in the face by a deserted, silvery pebble beach being lapped at by deep, blue waters. At some turns I audibly gasped at the incredible sights, such as exotic plants in such rich greens that they must've come from a fairy tale dancing in the cooling sea breeze like mythical creatures. At some points the scenery was so beautiful that I truly struggled to accept how amazing this world is. And the fact that I could walk through it with absolutely no interruptions made me feel extremely fortunate (despite the other events going on in my life), if not a little confused as to where the rest of the world was. Had I slipped into another dimension? Had I fallen down a rabbit hole on the hillside? 

Fortunately, or not depending on my preferred outcome, I eventually stumbled across fellow humans. As I neared the next village I found a mother, son and jack russell collecting pebbles on a deserted cove beach (the dog was more of a hindrance to the collection). At this point I must remind you that I had no idea where I was, I was just walking the coast as far as my little legs would take me. Part of me was hoping that the fresh sea air and exercise would help me fight the jet lag that would descend on me in a few hours. A conversation with the pebble-collectors assured me that I was on the right path to reach a seaside resort where I could reward myself with an ice cream and find a bus back to the ferry. I left them, very jealous of the fact that this was their life. Ignoring the busyness of the world and cocooning themselves in the warmth and tranquility of this pebbled cove. 

A while later I reached the white sands of Oneroa Beach. I stumbled out of the undergrowth at the far end where there were no people. Further up the sand I could see people sunbathing, kids playing around and even a seaplane parked on the shoreline. I sat beneath the shade of a overhanging tree and watched the scene play out. I soaked up every moment of calm that I could before heading up the beach to begrudgingly join the world again.

The sun and the sea of Waiheke Island had lifted my spirits and shown me that the world is beautiful again. I just wasn't sure what the world would have in store for me next.

There and back again: An unexpected return

Those of you who know me outside of the blog world may know this story already. Some of you may know the director's cut extended version and some may only be familiar with the trailer. This is the chance where I explain how my time in New Zealand was not the enjoyable time that I had hoped it would be, and how my trip of a lifetime got curtailed.

As a disclaimer I want to add that this is no slight on New Zealand. The small part of the country that I visited was wonderful and provided a peek into what the rest of the length of the islands would offer. I just couldn't put my heart into it. My heart was occupied on the other side of the world.

As I've already described in the previous entry, my first few hours in New Zealand were magical. The next morning I woke up to rain. I booked myself on to start my Kiwi Experience tour the following day then headed out for a wet, walking tour of Auckland. As the tour finished I checked my phone. The excitement of getting a working mobile yesterday was about to morph into a critical lifeline. Alerting me on the screen was a missed call, a text and a voicemail from my brother in England. My stomach contracted with panic as I ran through the possible scenarios in my mind. Immediately I knew something was wrong. I had only bid James farewell a few days ago. Heat was rising to my head. I pressed the button to listen to the voicemail message. As I listened to the message the world blurred out around me. The words meant nothing. All sense and comprehension drained away.

My mum had had a stroke.

It was serious but no one knew what was happening. She wasn't awake but they were keeping an eye on her. No one could make any prognosis until she woke up.
It was almost as if I was receiving the news that had been looming for a long time. My mum has never led the healthiest of lifestyles, and coupled with my pessimistic mindset, in the back of my mind I had half expected this type of news for most of my life. I just never expected it to be when I was on completely the opposite side of the globe.

After talking to my brother, the initial deep dark hole that had appeared in front of me was covered over. She was in the best place she could be. There was nothing that I could do. Nobody knew how she would be when she woke up. I was told to stay where I was until someone knew something. It was painful, but it made sense. But then again, sense doesn't really come into it when your mind is racing to all sorts of worst case scenarios.

Nevertheless I attempted the impossible task of taking my mind off the goings-on at home. My family were insisting I stay, at least until there was any further news. They knew how much these travels meant to me. And they did, but it seemed ridiculous to carry on when my Mum needed me. But whilst I was in New Zealand I tried to see as much of it as I could. So I joined the Kiwi Experience bus as I'd planned to head up to Paihia in the Bay of Islands.

I must've been the most miserable Kiwi Experience traveller ever. It has a reputation for being a party bus, and although my fellow passengers weren't whooping it up immediately, they were chatting and making friends. I wasn't in the mood for any of it. Watching the picture-perfect, lush, green hills of the countryside roll by out of the window, I was in my own world. It made me incredibly sad that I couldn't enjoy my experience of this wonderful country as I should. I felt as though I was wasting the experience.

When we reached Paihia I was still preoccupied. To try to clear my mind I went for a walk along the sea shore of the quaint seaside town. The heavy, white clouds were looming on the horizon. The rays of sunshine beaming down on the sparkling sea and the cool air would have made it a perfect evening if I hadn't had the millions of thoughts weighing heavy on my mind. As the sun set, I headed to the hostel to try to see if sleep would resolve any of the issues playing in my mind.

Waking up on the creakiest top bunk in the world, I tried to reach out to my phone without waking everyone else in the dorm. Another voicemail message flashed on the screen. Panic rose in my chest again. What news did they have about Mum? But Mum hadn't changed. This was something else. The news came through that a very dear Uncle of mine had suddenly and unexpectedly suffered a heart attack and passed away. I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. Sat on the top bunk in a hostel dorm, on the other side of the world, surrounded by strangers, I was about to burst into tears. My mind mulled over how my family would be feeling and coping. My heart broke for the pain my Aunty and my cousins must be feeling. My thoughts raced down a thousand different avenues all at once. And although there was nothing I could do for my Uncle, I felt I should be there for the rest of my family. I found it impossible to think how my cousins felt losing their Dad and brand new Grandad. I had to be there for my Mum.

That day we were heading up to Cape Reinga, the most North Westerly tip of New Zealand. It is also a very spiritual place. Despite being a long way from home, I felt comforted by being here. The Maori name of the point, 'Te Rerenga Wairua' means 'the leaping-off place of spirits'. Maoris believe the spirits of the recently deceased travel here to leap off the cliff into the afterlife. Whether or not you share these beliefs, you cannot deny the beauty of the scenery and the dramatic surroundings of the meeting of the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean. As last views go, it's not too bad. I said thank you and goodbye to my Uncle on that breathtaking, windy cliff top. Amongst the throngs of tourists I managed to steal a quiet moment of reflection. Life on Earth is truly beautiful but it is not infinite, and none of us know how far through our journey we are. 

I replayed the events and little snippets of news in my mind. I couldn't make sense of it all. Everything seemed like a horrible, horrible nightmare. None of it seemed real, partly because I was sat in a town that was supposedly a paradise with these painful realities happening to my loved ones thousands of miles away and nobody to talk to about it. The events at home felt so far removed from where I was that it was like recalling a long-forgotten scene from a film. In my mind I knew I had to come home.

The logistics of coming home proved a little tricky. Liaising with companies that keep opposite office hours took its toll on my emotions. But eventually I managed to sort it. I would have to wait two days until the flight, but I was set to return to the UK. Somewhat earlier than planned and bypassing my visit to Asia, the wheels were set in motion to return home. As I ended the call to finalise my flights I took stock of the events of the past few days. Sat on the floor of a hostel corridor at two in the morning, the tears came like a flood. The emotions I felt at that point were like no others I'd ever experienced. I felt grief for my Uncle; sorrow for his family; unbelievable worry and concern for my Mum; anxiety over the logistics of buying a new flight; distress over not being able to help my brother; guilt for being uselessly sat by the beach on the other side of the world; uneasiness over having to wait two days to take action; disappointment and anger over abandoning my trip, and then guilt over feeling angry. The emotions were just too confusing and I cried.

But then I went to bed and got some, albeit restless, sleep. Although my heart was right in its desire to be at home and support the people I love, this time was the clearest example in my life that life is for living. The old cliche of life's too short is painfully real. I had one more day in New Zealand before making my long, unexpected journey. Although I couldn't enjoy it as free-spiritedly as I might have a few days previously, I was going to bloody well live my life the best I could for that day.

What would you do with one day in New Zealand?

Kia Ora

Get to Auckland two days after leaving LA? This leg of the journey meant crossing the international date line. I was losing a whole Saturday. This was serious travelling now (that's without mentioning the child-like excitement I was experiencing about heading to the Southern hemisphere for the first time; obviously I experimented in the first sink I got to). Whether it was the tiredness from travelling, or maybe my brain is just not capable of processing such time-travel, but I just couldn't get my head around it. Where did the day go? What if I was going to do something important on that day and never got the chance to? All pressing questions swilling around my sleep-deprived, confused mind as I disembarked the plane in Nadi airport, Fiji.

Although it was early in the morning, you could feel the stifling, humid heat as soon as you passed through the plane door. This was the tropics. I could see lush vegetation covering the hills around the airport as we queued along the outside walkway to get through customs. I'm still not sure if I can count Fiji as a country I've visited, but I think I should be able to as I definitely got bitten by a Fijian fly as we tried to dodge the swarms loitering around the lights aiding our passage through the dim dawn light.

Soon, regrettably not as soon as I'd have liked thanks to a backlog of flight delays, I was settling onto the flight to Auckland. It's hard to fully explain to anyone how excited I was at this point. The little sleep I managed on the plane was interrupted by the nervous excitement of tummy butterflies normally reserved for childhood Christmas Eves. In seemingly no time the plane was soaring over the Maori coastline. I admit now I probably infringed the personal space of the young man sat next to me as we prepared for landing (well, they should have given me a window seat).

On landing I thought I may have thrown up. I'm an excellent flyer; it was pure adrenalin-fuelled excitement bubbling in my chest. Grabbing my carry-on bag I queued to get off the plane, onto New Zealand soil whilst smiling around at everyone I could see. At one point I had to refocus my mind onto some mundane task I had to do, because if my thought process kept going in the direction that it was I would break down into floods of happy tears right there in the aisle of that plane.

The extent of planning my time in New Zealand only stretched to booking myself onto a Kiwi Experience tour bus (which was now making me slightly hesitant as most fellow travellers referred to it as the 'party bus'- see the Las Vegas blog entry for my feelings towards "partying"), and the first night's accommodation in an Auckland hostel. But first I had to get to downtown Auckland. No worries. I was easily pointed in the direction of the bus. Another need was to switch my phone to a NZ tariff. No worries. A Vodafone (other mobile companies are available) outlet greeted me from the arrival lounge where a nice young man advised me and set up my new sim (those of you familiar with my technological skills will fully appreciate the appreciation I felt for this service). As I left the airport I was walking on air. It was all going unbelievably smoothly. My heart was so full of joy and anticipation as I rode that bus through to Auckland that even the industrial estates and suburbs we passed looked exciting. To a watching bystander I must've looked like a complete simpleton smiling to myself the whole journey.

That evening, after dumping my bag at the dorm of the hostel, I headed out to explore. Once again I was drawn to the sea. Walking through Auckland ferry port, I soon found myself continuing my journey onto a Devonport bound vessel. Devonport is a suburb on the North Shore, easily accessed by a short ferry ride. I knew nothing about the place as I bought my ticket. But this didn't hinder the enjoyment of my destination. The fresh sea air felt wonderful after almost a day of recycled aeroplane air. Sitting at the back of the ferry, I didn't mind the cool spray hitting me as I surveyed the outline of downtown Auckland on our retreat from the city.

Devonport was a magical step back in time. The range of specialist shops along the high street. The Art Deco cinema. The incredible butterfly that followed me on the trek up Mount Victoria. The kitsch toadstools 'growing' from the headland overlooking the harbour. The wonderfully designed, colourful 50s style houses, all individual, perched on the hillside. I treated myself to a taste of home as I sat eating my fish and chips from the paper, on a bench along the promenade to watch the comings and goings of the harbour as the sun was setting.

It was a very good day.

I feel maybe it was too good.

That was the hi light of my time in New Zealand. A memory I will cherish forever. Even writing about it now raises an aching feeling of bittersweet joy from my stomach to my throat. But it strengthens my resolve to return to properly release those butterflies of excited anticipation that are still bursting to escape.