Oct. 25 (Friday)
I’ve discovered a commonality in what I think is stunningly beautiful: I really like steep mountains sloping down into water. I think the Pacific Coast Highway above San Francisco is like dancing with Fred Astaire, with grand swoops and spins as a road carved into the cliffs follows the folded contours of the coves far below.
I think the railroad from Ollantayambo to Machu Picchu Pueblo in Peru is gasp-inducing as it runs on tracks that are boldly cantilevered out from bare rock with nothing below but the river roaring over the rocks. Sometimes the valley is so steep and precipitous that it almost feels like you could reach out the train window and graze your fingers on the stone bulwark across the river. The sun can only get to the water at high noon because the two walls of the valley are so steep.
The fjords of Patagonia slope deeply into the water that becomes a broad, empty avenue between castles and palaces of stone and ice. Motoring along those utterly empty channels was completely mesmerizing.
And to this list I now add the Queen Charlotte Drive, along the Queen Charlotte Sound from Havelock to Picton, which Twig and I bravely drove in our rental car. (Harry preferred some quiet time back at The Marlborough, and who could blame him?!)
From the plane I saw the gloriously crinkled earth of what I now know was Queen Charlotte Sound, where the land had been folded and carved into a million gouges and trenches which the sea had raced in to fill. So the road we were on was endlessly curving. There was barely a single stretch where my hands weren’t pulling the wheel left or right though uncountable hairpin turns. Unlike the PCH, the road isn’t banked particularly well—plus I was driving on the wrong side of the road. So I didn’t get much of the same dancing feeling as the journey north to Mendocino in California—but it did still induce giggles as the curves unspooled before us.
Twig was an excellent and calm passenger, only rarely noting that I was swerving toward the shoulder (which was particularly good of her as often the “shoulder” was nothing more than an inch or two of dirt and an extremely steep slope to the rocky waters below). We came around one curve and found what I first thought had to be a cautionary tail—the back end of a BMW pointing at the sky, its nose out of sight down the steep embankment. But no--it wasn’t a public service to remind drivers to slow down. It was some poor bastard’s car in a—well, not in a ditch. More like clinging to life, police tape still stretched across the back end. Left there, I assume, until someone could bust out a wrecker and tow the vehicle back up the cliff and onto the road.
We went VERY slowly after that!
The best thing about the road was that I NEVER had anyone behind me. (No, that’s not true; one truck came up on my bumper but there are ample pull-out areas where one can stop and take in the view, so I was off the road before the other driver was even slightly inconvenienced by my turtle-like pace. Nice!) And every single turn brought another spectacular view. We stopped a few times to get out and wander. We took a short trail through the scrub in the rain, which was scenic.
That's Twig in her rain poncho. We took pictures of Havelock. Of the Sound. Of the huge lumber yard we came to, with a ship waiting to load up on New Zealand tree trunks.
We had lunch in Pitston (fish and chips at a pub playing 1980s New Wave on MTV; a blast from my past!) and Twig drove us home. It was a completely successful little adventure, and we were pleased that we did not let wind and a little drizzly rain stop us. The rain just made the views all the more lush and green.
What a gorgeous place.
Here are a few more pictures of The Marlborough, just because it’s so serene and lovely.
The chapel, where I read this morning.
Former nunnery. Now luxurious hotel. That window at the top right is at the foot of my room. I'm sitting on the balcony around the corner to type. Yesterday I had to drag Rob the manager upstairs to explain why I couldn't get the air conditioner to stop blowing so vigoriously on me; he explained that I was attempting to change the room temp by messing with the thermostat that heated the bathroom floor. Use THIS thermostat by the door. Oh. Silly me. And since you're here, can you explain why I can't open the door to the balcony and instead had to climb out the window? Huh--did you not see that the door has a lock on it? You just turn this key...? Oh, you New Zealanders. Everything's unusual here! (The man thinks I'm insane.)
They light a fire here every evening. Assuming you can stay awake past darkness and aren't falling gratefully into the sinfully comfortable bed.
Wow!