Solstice and Christmas

Solstice is a bitter sweet time of year; both signifying the the start of two to three months serious summer and the daily downfall back towards winter. The longest day is traditionally marked by a knees up on 9 mile beach that would make even the the most dour druid deeply happy. 

I spent a whole two days out of the saddle, which gave me the first sensation of this actually being a holiday. Many thanks to Roger for quotes, fine wine and great coffee.

I cycled 123km from Greymouth to Granity, up the great coast road. It was Christmas eve, so I decided to be kind to the under carriage and treat myself to a double ration of chamois cream - travelling in style.







I spent Christmas day with Lesley, Patricia and friends, and made a solid effort to replace the weight I've lost during this trip in one sitting. Thanks to Patrica for letting me stay at The Castle. Letting the pupils dilate into panoramas and relax in the most regal of rural locations. You can, too, now that she's listed it on airbnb.

 







Boxing day is typically celebrated by demonstrating a lack of will power and a penchant for hyper-consumption. Justifying credit card abuse through bargains that would otherwise render life un-livable. In Westport, it's celebrated with a few beers and a new tan line, down at the trotting club. It's that time of year when the ladies do their level best to look stunning in their race day regalia, while the chaps crack out the tried and tested singlet and short combo. To their credit, they had spent the last couple of weeks converting their ute into tiered padded seating or a paddling pool to cool off in - so give 'em a break! My luck was out and I didn't win a bean.





To restore spirits, I decided to visit a few pubs on the cycle home. First up was the incongruously pink painted Pig and Whistle that I've passed many times before. I met Graeme the bar man and Dan. In true west coast fashion, it turns out Dan helped build the house I'm staying in. Apparently, in lieu of a spirit level the local builders built the house by sighting the horizon to keep things horizontal. It's typical of a place where towns are hewn from coal, characters hewn from hills and houses from vistas - everything is inextricably linked. The guys then fell into normal discourse about loaders, diggers, differentials, axle damage and other automotive engineering banter. I nodded in stern, knowing agreement, then got on my push bike.

I popped into the Pines, had a pit stop with Pete, a quick bite at the Big Fish and a roadie at Charming Creek. All in all, a 76km round trip.



iPod update: the alphabet is the most soulless guide to a music collection I can think of. I may as well pay for Spotify to lobotomise me.

Road kill: the ubiquitous possum, unlucky pukeko, cheeky weka and unfortunate hawk (who was probably, ironically, trying to tuck in to one of the previous delicacies).