See Sharon's post about the first part of our trip here.
After
Kaikoura with its overhyped seal colony (only two seals? WTF?) and the amazing
experience swimming with dolphins (300 dolphins!! That's more like it...) we
made our way north to Blenheim. Blenheim is the center of Marlborough wine
country, which is the most renowned wine region of New Zealand -- although, like
Australia, wine regions are common. Whereas Australia is deserts surrounded by
wine country surrounded by beaches, New Zealand is mountains surrounded by wine
country surrounded by beaches.
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| Worst seal colony ever. |
The drive
was spectacular. The ocean was on our right side most of the way and rolling
hills hugged our left. Each hill was slightly different. Some had horizontal
striations from the wind and sported a few golden shrubs shaped like
cauliflower heads. Others were a deep green and covered in pine trees. Lord of
the Rings was right to film here, I remarked, because this place was magical.
In
Marlborough we had a couple wineries on our list that were recommended by a
Kiwi colleague of Sharon's. We got to one and it was closed -- it was nearly
4:30 in the afternoon and it was Christmas Eve.The second winery was a 15
minute drive and we weren't sure it would even be open. It was likely the gods of wine were passed
out at this point and wouldn't be in a position to help us. We decided to cut
our losses and head back to Highfield, a winery we'd passed that was open. As
an added benefit it resembled a Tuscan castle. Tacky? Perhaps. Awesome?
Definitely.
Despite
some clouds forming, we opted to sit on the patio for a tasting. We went
through a number of whites and reds, all the while pretending we actually knew
something about wine and that our noses could pick up the hints of lemon or
sassafras or rhubarb or whatever it was we were supposed to be tasting. (Okay, I'm speaking for Sharon and me here; it's highly possible Alex and Esther do know what they're doing.)
On the way
to our hotel we stopped at the Wither Hill Winery, which was about to close despite a dozen people
still hanging around for tastings. They no doubt sighed when we walked in and
added to the queue. While the building was impressive and the view out front to
the vineyards wasn't too hard on the eyes either, we didn't think any of the wines
were that great. We did notice the smell of the oak barrels containing wine in
the basement. Sharon decided she wanted to infuse our future house with the
same smell. I like wood as much as the next guy (...wait a sec…) but didn't necessarily
want the musty oak smell in my abode.
For dinner
our hotel recommended a restaurant called Accent
in the heart of Blenheim. Blenheim was a nice little town but didn't have the
charm of some other wine region centers I've seen. Thinking the few open
restaurants in town would be swamped given the holiday, I booked ahead. We were
all caught a bit off guard when we walked into the restaurant --décor-wise, it
was like a trip back in time to a retirement home. It was also mostly empty.
It was run by an older couple: Merv (in the kitchen) and his wife Helen
(hostess and waitress).
One of the
specials on the menu was muttonbird ravioli. We asked Helen what it was. The
description started off well enough: muttonbird is a seabird from the south of
New Zealand's south island and is only available for a limited time each year.
How can we not try it, we thought. Then the description turned south.
"It's a very tough bird," Helen said. "And very fatty. Generally
it's baked for an hour, then you scrape off the fat that's risen to the top,
and then you eat it. We actually bake it for three hours and scrape the fat off
every hour to make it more palatable." By this point the girls were
totally grossed out. I admired her for her honesty. It was like she was trying
not to sell us the muttonbird. Alex and I asked what it tasted like.
"Well," Helen said, "It's like anchovy-flavored duck."
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| Muttonbird. Yep, ate one of these guys. Not tasty. |
Anchovy-flavored duck. That's not a match made in culinary heaven. Still, Alex and I
agreed to share it. After all, this was an opportunity we couldn't pass up, no
matter how unappetizing it sounded. It wasn't quite as bad as I expected, but
all the same I'd never eat it again. The rest of the courses we ordered were
fairly tame: steak, lamb, barramundi.
A stream of
young twenty-somethings kept passing by outside en route to a club down the
street. We briefly entertained going once dinner ended but, being old and lame,
we went back to the hotel. We'd had a jam-packed couple days and Christmas day
was going to be another early morning. As Toby Keith sang, "I'm not as
good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was." The problem is
you have to pick and choose when to be that good: Christmas Eve in Blenheim was not that time.
Christmas
morning we were up early and back on the road, continuing our path along the
top end of the south island. Our destination was Abel Tasman National Park, in
the northwest corner of the island. We weaved along the only road, first
through the broad valley of Marlborough wine country, then through evergreen
covered mountains. We made several pit stops so Alex, the official trip
photographer, could snap a shot. I was generally too lazy to get out the camera
Sharon and I brought, so I'd just point at whatever Alex was shooting and take
a few photos on my iPhone. Copying off a better photographer is really a stress-free way to document your trip, I found.
At one
point we drove across a short bridge and, peering over the side, saw a
spectacularly clear creek. We decided we had to see it more closely so parked
the car and walked back to the creek. It was the color of a blue diamond and so
clear we could see to the bottom. Alex and I walked down the hill and just
stared for a while. We could have easily spent a day there if we had the time.
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| How could we not jump! |
